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AnGELB’S Fortujste. 


A STORY OF REAL LIFE. 



BY ANDRE THEURIET. 


AUTHOB OF “the YOUNG MAUGARS,” “GERALD’S MARRIAGE,” 
“RAYMONDE,” “ANTOINETTE,” ETC., ETC, 


* TRANSLATED AND ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH 

BY MARY NEAL SHERWOOD. 




"AngSle's Fortune" is looked upon by all French critics as the strongest and most 
dramatic of Theuriet' s novels. In it the love-making is charming, and done with great 
delicacy, for Andri Theuriet is an artist. He fascinates profoundly, and does not 
confine himself, as is his custom, to pictures of provincial life, but gives us a glimpse 
of Paris, its theatres and its streets. IFe watch the heroine from be^nning to end 
with unabated interest. Her pretty follies amuse and interest at first, but at the 
end they give us the heartache : while the mother, at once weak and energetic, is a 
character almost new in fiction. ** La Genevraief* the gay adventurer — heartless 
and yet not altogether selfish — is a French Micawber, while the hero, the poet, and 
lover of luxury, is so uncomfortably well done that we feel that he was drawn from 
life. The story is most admirably told, and as to the translation, it is only neces- 
sary to say that it is one of Mrs. Sherwoodf s, to ensure its success . — Critic. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETEBSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 



V 


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copyright: 

T, B. Bie,OTIiEILS. 

1879. 


' % 

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CONTENTS 




Chapter Page 

I. A PAIR OF BLUE EYES 21 

n. INVITED TO DINNER 41 

m. ALADDIN’S LAMP 62 

IV. A NEW ADVISER 76 

V. A PARISIAN PHILOSOPHER 89 

VI. A NEW WAY OF ENTERTAINING 106 

Vn. A YOUNG ACTRESS 117 

Vm. AMBITIOUS HOPES 127 

IX. sainte-anne’s 144 

X. BIRDS AND FLOWERS 160 

' XI. MOTHER AND SON 175 

Xn. A FATAL BLOW 186 

xm. AN ENGAGEMENT 199 

XIV. AWAKENING 210 

XV. DESOLATION 224 

XVI. FRANCO-PRUSSIAN 235 

xvn. A NEW LIFE 245 


( 19 ) 





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!'•’ 







angele:s foetene. 

.FROM THE FRENCH OF 

ANDRE THEURIET. 


AUTHOR OP “the YOUNG MAUGARS,” “ GERALD’S MARRIAGE,” 

“raymonde,” “the godson op a marquis,” 

“ANTOINETTE,” ETC., ETC. 


TRANSLATED BY lARY NEAL SHERWOOD. 


CHAPTER L 

A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 

<< A ND now, I will introduce you to your fellow- 
JlX. students.” 

And the lawyer, Boblique by name, the busiest man 
of his profession in the town of Bay, opened the double 
doors which divided his private office from the room in 
which his students and clerks worked, saying, as he 
did so : 

“ Gentlemen, this is Monsieur Joseph Toussaint, your 
future companion, and my new clerk.” 

Four curious faces were at once lifted from behind 
as many desks, and four pairs of eyes inspected the 

( 21 ) 


22 


angele’s fortune. 


stranger, who stood unmoved. He was a tall fellow of 
twenty-five, solidly made, with square shoulders and a 
general look of strength, but with a dreamy sort of face, 
which offered a singular contrast to his masculine form. 
Under his high, wide brow were a pair of soft blue 
eyes, with a surprised, melancholy look in their depths. 
His full blonde beard indifferently concealed a large, 
generous mouth, with well-cut lips, the upper one 
slightly curved and thin, while the lower was very full. 
His bright chestnut hair was as badly cut as his clothes, 
both told the story of a village barber and tailor, testify- 
ing to a complete indifference on the part of the young 
man to matters of toilette. 

“He is a perfect Guy,” whispered a small, dandified 
clerk into the ear of his next neighbor.” 

“ He looks like a hard worker,” muttered old S^n^- 
chal, who for thirty years had filled the position of head 
clerk and bookkeeper in this office. 

By this time Joseph Toussaint had become somewhat 
disturbed by the unwinking glare of all these eyes, and 
he looked down on his hobnailed shoes, the crevice 
between soles and uppers being still filled with snow, 
for it was January, and the streets were almost impas- 
sable. 

“ Monsieur Toussaint,” continued the lawyer, “ will 
take Jacquemarte’s place, and you, S^ndchal, will 
initiate him in the routine of his work.” 

As Boblique spoke, he went from desk to desk, look- 
ing over the shoulders of the young men, and turning 


angele’s fortune. 


23 


over the papers. He was small, thin, and as noiseless 
in his movements as a cat. His bushy head emerged 
from a voluminous white cravat ; he wore blue specta- 
cles, while his complexion was, in color and texture, like 
old parchment. His face was immovable as ice, and his 
clerks asserted that he had never been known to smile. 

“By the way,” he said, turning toward Toussaint, 
“have you found a lodging yet? No? Very good. 
Your predecessor lived with Sen^chal, who, I have no 
doubt, will be glad to receive you on the same terms. 
Arrange things between yourselves. You can have a 
holiday, and begin your work to-morrow at eight 
o’clock. I am punctual myself, and expect the same 
from those about me.” 

The Notary returned to his private office, leaving 
Joseph planted in the centre of the floor. The young 
man, uncertain what to do, went toward a table which 
stood a little apart, and was about to take the unoccu- 
pied chair, when a gesture from S^ndchal deterred him. 

“ No, no,” said the old man, with a kind smile, “ you 
can’t sit there. That place belongs to Monsieur des 
Armoises, the amateur clerk. It is true that he is rarely 
here, but it is his place, all the same. Your desk is 
nearer me, young man. Sit down there, look over the 
Directory, and commit to memory the names of the city 
authorities ; it will do you no harm. As soon as I have 
run over this column of figures, I will be ready to talk 
with you.” 

Si^n^chal’s affable tone reassured the young man, who 


24 


angele’s fortune. 


opened the Directory, but whose eyes wandered from its 
pages to examine this large, dingy room, whose aspect 
was in such entire contrast to the village office he had 
just left. The four pens scratched monotonously over 
the shining paper. In a dusty corner the porcelain 
stove roared comfortably, while outside, the snow was 
piling up with calm persistence against the windows. 

The daylight entered through green glass, and fell on 
the black, painted desks and the bowed heads of the 
clerks — upon boxes, stuffed with papers, and huge vol- 
umes, from which hung long red threads, put in to 
mark certain places for reference. On one side were 
shelves, covered with volumes, which had come down to 
Boblique from a regular line of predecessors, whose 
names were inscribed on the backs. All this time, one 
of the clerks was reading a title-deed aloud to another, 
who was comparing it with one laid before him. 
Through the gentle roar of the stove and the rattling of 
the dry snow against the window, came the sounds of 
this voice, and a few words, heard at intervals, gave a 
new turn to Joseph’s reflections. 

“And Ren^ Armand de Sancloitre, dying on No- 
vember 20th, 1868, at his domain of Rambercourt, 
bequeathed by will to his grand-nephew, Ren^ des 
Armoises ” 

“ By the way, what had become of this Ren^ ? ” said 
the clerk, who had been reading. “ He is a rich man 
now, at all events.” 

“ Rich ! ” murmured S^n^chal, looking up from his 


angele’s fortune. 


25 


figures. “ Rich I ” That depends. His mother has the 
use of the property for life.” 

“ That makes no difference. When her hour comes, 
she can’t take it with her ; and he will never set his foot 
in this office again.” 

“Well, our master won’t be very sorry. He can’t 
abide amateurs, and he only kept Ren^ here on his 
uncle’s account, who had been his best client, you 
know, for many years.” 

“What luck some people have,” sighed the clerk. 
“ Now, this young man will return to Paris, and write 
plays for the theatre, and sup with the actresses.” 

“ They certainly know how to spend money, these 
theatre people. It always melts in their hands.” 

“ Hush ! hush ! gentlemen,” cried S^n^chal, who was 
going astray with his figures. 

The voices dropped, and Joseph thought of this 
young man — to whom an unexpected legacy had 
given freedom — with a pang of envy, for he was him- 
self by no means fond of the profession of the law. 
Having a gentle and contemplative nature, tinged 
with a little mysticism by five years of seminary life, 
he was infinitely more interested in lectures and 
philosophical investigations than in legal or fiscal dis- 
cussions. 

“ A lawyer,” he said to himself, “ is condemned to 
see life always on the wrong side — in its most ignoble 
aspect. With each code I copy I am inclined to say to 
myself ‘ What is that to me ? ’ But it is of no use to 


26 


ANGELE’s FORTUIfE. 


talk in this way ; it is too late. Besides, what would 
my brother, the Abb^, say ? ” 

The stove kept up its soothing murmur and the snow 
came more softly against the window, with a rustling 
sound like wings, while Lawyer Boblique’s new clerk 
continued to dream. His thoughts had wandered to 
his little village in the heart of Lorraine. He saw the 
tiny cottages, clustered around the church — the room 
where he and his brother, the Abbe, had studied to- 
gether — the garden, blazing with simple flowers, which 
his sister Genevieve so dearly loved. 

The clerk still read aloud, and Joseph’s thoughts 
unwittingly crept back to the uncle, who slept so 
peacefully, and to that grave in the Cemetery, to 
which he had not carried any of the treasures enumer 
rated in the inventory, that a prodigal nephew was 
soon to scatter to the winds. 

“ And this is life ! ” thought Joseph, whose mind 
inclined to philosophical comparisons. “Each of us 
thinks he is playing a necessary part before a crowd of 
attentive spectators, and acts only a most unimportant 
r61e, which Death interrupts, and the end of all, is a 
roughly-made cofi&n, followed by a dozen indifferent 
spectators ” 

“Well, young man, are you asleep over the Direc- 
tory ? ” 

In considerable confusion, Joseph started up, and 
saw that the head clerk was standing by his side, all 
dressed and ready for departure. S^nechal was wrapped 


angele’s foetune. 


27 


in an ample coat, lined with fur and having a wide 
collar. He was putting on a heavy pair of woolen 
gloves. His neck was rather short and totally disap- 
peared in the heavy fur collar. His face was red and 
jovial ; his eyes were blue, round and bright ; his nose 
was straight, and his lips healthy and red, parting in a 
perpetual smile, which showed tAvo rows of nice white 
teeth. There was something quite attractive in this 
man’s face. 

“It wants ten minutes of twelve,” he said. “We 
shall have time to call at your inn for your luggage, so 
that you will be able to settle yourself entirely to-day.” 

They went out. The snow had ceased, and as they 
walked. Monsieur S^n^chal informed Joseph Toussaint 
of the conditions on which he had taken his predecessor 
to board. They were simple and modest, and suited 
the slender purse of the young man, who at once 
accepted them. On leaving the inn, they crossed the 
market place, and, suddenly. Monsieur S^nechal, who 
had been walking at a rapid pace, stopped at the win- 
dow of a shop wherein were displayed galantines, dark 
with truffles, sausages from Arles, dainty bird pies and 
a Strasbourg pate. His round eyes dilated, his nostrils 
SAvelled and a smile hovered on his lips. 

“ Ah ! ah ! young man, what do you think of this ? ” 

Joseph, whose gastronomical tastes were as scantily 
developed as those connected with his toilette, did not 
in the least understand his companion’s enthusiasm, and 
was quite unmoved by this display of comestibles. 


28 


angele’s fortune. 


“Just look at these pears,” continued Monsieur 
S^n^chal; “they make my mouth water. And those 
truffles ! And, by Jove ! there is a woodcock, the very 
first I have seen.” He stood for a moment, as if 
undecided. 

“ That is the game I prefer. Which do you like > 
best?” 

“ I ! ” answered Joseph, whose feet were beginning to 
feel excessively cold, and who was growing very impa- 
tient; “I don’t care. At table, I never know the 
difference between a partridge and a pigeon.” 

“Is that so? Well, then, that decides me. Wait a 
moment.” 

Monsieur S^n^chal rushed into the shop, and came 
out again in a moment with a triumphant air. “ I have 
bought it ! ” he exclaimed, showing a little bundle, from 
which protruded the bird’s long beak. “We will 
make a delicious salmi of it to-night, to celebrate your 
arrival.” 

They walked on, but as they drew near la Rue des 
Savonnaires, where the head clerk resided, he walked 
more slowly and his face indicated a certain anxiety. 
As they crossed the little bridge opposite the Church 
des Augustins, he showed Joseph a house, directly on 
the canal. 

“ There,” he said, you can see one side of our house, 
and from this spot you can even distinguish the win- 
dows of your room. The place is not very gay, to be 
sure, but, as soon as you get accustomed to it, you 


angele’s fortune. 


29 


will like the quiet, I think, and you can hear vespers 
every night without moving out of your chair.” 

Joseph stood still and examined with interest each 
detail of this singularly picturesque corner of the little 
town of Bay. The arm of the river fed an infinite 
number of factories on either bank — tanneries, cotton 
mills and wash-houses. On either side, too, of the nar- 
row canal threading the town, rose quaint old buildings, 
whose galleries terminated in quaintly-carved gargoyles, 
and whose sloping roofs overhung the dark waters, 
which ran, sometimes placidly, under the arch of a 
bridge, or bubbled and foamed around a mill wheel. 
These swelling facades, green with mould, stood oppo- 
site each other, pierced with rare windows, while the 
canal ran black below. Occasionally, a worm-eaten 
balcony, a footbridge overgrown with moss, and a high 
platform, hung with tawny skins and piled with tan, 
broke the monotony of the lines. In summer, when the 
level rays of the setting sun momentarily lighted up 
this obscurity, it brought out marvels of color. Golden 
shafts of light flashed through the arches; the dull 
water glowed with a rosy flush, which was reflectedton 
the greenish walls, and the foam around the mill wheels 
was bright with prismatic hues. 

In winter, on days like the one on which Joseph 
Toussaint first beheld the place, the scene was very 
different, but no less picturesque. Slender icicles 
fringed the roofs and hung from the jaws of the 
gargoyles. Ice, too, had bound the mill wheels ; snow 


30 


angele's fortune. 


lay in heaps against the walls, while the canal was 
bathed in a clear, blue light, like that pervading some 
mysterious Norwegian grotto. 

“The place pleases me,” said Joseph, at last, with a 
slightly German intonation. 

“Let us hurry,” answered Monsieur S^ndchal, “for 
the clock is striking and we are late.” 

The entrance of the house was on La Rue des Savon- 
naires. The noise made by the two clerks as they went 
in, was evidently heard, for a door was burst open at 
the end of the corridor, some one made a rush at Mon- 
sieur S^n^chal, and, in the darkness, Joseph heard two 
kisses resound on the cheeks of the old gentleman, 
while a rich contralto voice exclaimed : 

“ How late you are ! Your soup will not be fit to 
eat.” 

When S^n^chal had returned these caresses, he 
stepped aside, and Toussaint, whose eyes were by that 
time accustomed to the darkness of the corridor, saw, 
standing in the half-open door, a girl, in all the fresh 
beauty of her nineteen years. 

“ This is my daughter AngMe,” said the old clerk. 

The young man was so confused by the superb blue 
eyes which were riveted upon him that he forgot to 
bow. 

“And this, my child, is Monsieur Toussaint. He 
not only takes Jacquemarte’s place at the office, but 
here also. His trunk will be here presently.” 

The young girl glanced at the new comer, and an 
odd smile moved just one corner of her lips. 


angele’s fortune. 


31 


“He has just come from the country,” continued 
the old gentleman, as he suddenly pulled the woodcock 
out from under his cloak, “and was kind enough to 
bring us this bird, which we will eat to-night in a 
salmi.” 

At these words Joseph started, and with the greatest 
difficulty restrained a cry of surprise. He opened his 
eyes in astonishment, while AngMe looked, first at her 
father and then at the woodcock, with an air of mis- 
chievous incredulity. 

“He killed it,” affirmed Monsieur Sdn^chal, pinching 
the youth’s arm severely to make him speak. Joseph 
at last understanding what was expected of him, stam- 
mered out: 

“Yes, certainly — yes” — at the same time coloring 
to the tips of his ears. 

“ Take it to the pantry,” continued the clerk, “ and 
pray say nothing to your mother, until I have left the 
house.” 

AngMe shrugged her shoulders, looked knowingly at 
her father, and said as she took the bird : 

“ My mother is out ; she has gone to my aunt’s, and 
will not return until night.” 

She proceeded to lay another place at the table, while 
Monsieur Sdn^chal, comforted apparently by hearing 
of his wife’s absence, began to whistle gayly, as he took 
off his gloves and his cloak. 

The dinner, however, was a silent one, notwithstand- 
ing his cheerfulness. AngMe was making up her mind 


32 


angele’s fortune. 


in regard to the new boarder, and he being very hungry 
as well as very timid, eat much and said little. When 
they rose from the table Monsieur Sendchal took Joseph 
all over the house — from the attic to the cellar — and 
finally installed him in the room he was to occupy, with 
considerable solemnity. This room went in the family 
by the name of “ the clerk’s chamber,” and was high 
up and poorly furnished, but Joseph, who had never 
been spoiled by luxury, found it very habitable. The 
one window, with its wide stone sill, looked down on 
the canal, and upon one side of the old church. This 
pious neighborhood, and the rush and splash of the 
water, quite won the young man’s heart, and he un- 
packed his trunk in a most contented spirit. 

He placed his modest library on the table — his one 
or two law books — Pascal and the Bible. Then he 
hung up over the chimney, photographs of his family. 
When all was in order, he discovered that his fire had 
gone out, and that the room was rapidly becoming very 
cold. He therefore thought he would go out and warm 
his chilled limbs by a rapid walk. As he passed 
through the corridors he saw the door of the dining-room 
open, and Angele standing at a table near the window 
ironing. Joseph hesitated, divided between the desire 
to talk with his young hostess, and the fear of seeming 
intrusive. He finally decided that it was best for him 
to go on, but at that moment Angele, who was singing 
like a mocking bird, looked up, and bade him come in. 

“ One question sir,” she said abruptly, “ did not my 
father buy that woodcock ? ” 


angele’s fortune. 


33 


“Really” — stammered Toussaint, considerably dis- 
concerted. 

“ Own up now! I am quite familiar with all papa’s 
little ways. He is a perfect epicure ; gluttony, in fact, 
is his pet sin, and when I was a little girl I have many 
a time been his accomplice, just as you were this 
morning.” 

“Then, Mademoiselle, since you insist, I will tell 
you that you are right, and also that I am none too 
well pleased at having been made to tell a falsehood.” 

“Which you must nevertheless keep up,” cried 
AngMe, “ and with spirit too, unless you would have a 
scene at supper. Mamma spoiled me, and would eat 
dry bread for the sake of giving me a new dress, but 
she has not the smallest patience, when luxuries of this 
kind are brought into the house. Promise me faith- 
fully that you will keep up this deception.” 

“ I promise ” 

“ Remember,” she said, “ that you are not to blush 
either, as you did this morning I ” and she lifted a 
warning forefinger. “ I knew the truth just by looking 
at you, and mamma is quite as shrewd as I, in such 
matters.” 

“Truly!” They looked at each other, and both 
laughed merrily. 

The ice was broken, and the young man mentally 
congratulated himself at this semi-complicity, and 
flattered himself that it was the beginning of a pleas- 
ant intimacy. AngMe bade him take a seat near the 
2 


34 


ang^le’s fortune. 


stove, which Joseph gladly did, as his hands were 
nearly frozen. He was at a loss, however, to open a 
conversation, and as he sat rubbing his hands he longed 
to say something, and pined for an inspiration. 

AngHe had returned to her ironing. Sometimes she 
stooped over a large basket, and then standing on tip- 
toe, would lean over the table, in her efforts to reach the 
further end of the long muslin curtain with her iron. 
Her slender figure swayed as she slowly moved her 
arm up and down. The light coming through the 
window, fell on the massive braids of her brown hair — 
touched the tip of one shell-like ear, and tinged with 
gold the tiny curls on her neck. When one curtain 
was finished and folded she turned toward a clothes- 
horse and hung it carefully to air, and then Joseph saw 
her features, like the profile of a medallion — her fair 
brow and drooping lids — her straight nose, beautiful 
mouth, and delicately rounded chin. She was tall, well 
made, and spirited in movement. Every attitude was 
graceful, unstudied and harmonious, and spoke of 
health, and plenitude of animal spirits and an intense 
vitality which was absolutely irresistible. Angele was 
demonstrative, talkative and enthusiastic. It was she, 
therefore, who naturally spoke first, and came to the 
assistance of the taciturn Joseph. 

“ Is this the first time you have been in this town. 
Monsieur Toussaint?” she asked, as she held an iron to 
her cheek to test its heat. 

“I have a country air, I suppose?” asked Joseph, 


angele’s fortune. 


35 


curiously, “ I have lived five years of my life at Nancy, 
nevertheless, but all the rest of the time, I have been 
in the village with my brothers.” 

“ Is your family large ? ” 

“There are eleven of us,” he said, a little dis- 
turbed at being obliged to make such an avowal, 
“ and they all live at Albestroff except my brother, the 
Abb^, and myself. Albestroff is a tiny village, sur- 
rounded by forests.” 

“ How I should loathe it ! ” cried AngHe, without 
any ceremony. 

“ No, you would not,” answered Joseph, with an air 
of conviction; “Albestroff is a dear old place, where 
every one goes to bed at nine, and rises at six. It is a 
real home — sunny and bright — flowers and fresh air! 
There are sparkling brooks in every direction, the road 
to the barn is covered with fine white sand, and there 
is a great parlor where we are told we are not allowed 
to smoke — and yet where we always do — all the same ! 
No, no, you are mistaken! you would not dislike 
Albestroff ! It is a place that one pines for, as soon as 
one has left it ! ” 

“ You certainly are not much like one of your future 
companions in the office, whose only idea is always to 
get away from his home, although it is a most comfort- 
able one.” 

“ And who is that?” 

“ Ren^ des Armoises.” 

“ Ah, yes ! the young man who has just inherited a 


36 


angele’s fortune. 


fortune. But I liave heard him spoken of as rather a 
scatter-brain ! ” 

“You will lose that notion when you know him,” 
cried AngMe, putting down her iron energetically, and 
turning toward her companion. “ He is the nicest fel- 
low in the world ! so clever, too ! He is a thorough 
musician, and rides horseback like an angel ! He is a 
poet also, and has published some verses which I know 
by heart. He will be celebrated some day, and will 
make this town famous as his birth-place ! ” 

“ Fame,” said Toussaint, sententiously, as he shook 
his head, “ is a star which rises only when we are in 
our tombs. Besides, verses amount to nothing — in 
these days ! ” 

Joseph was, in his heart, a little jealous at the anima- 
tion with which the girl spoke of Ren^ des Armoises, 
whom she seemed to admire so much. 

“He does more than write verses,” she replied, 
piqued by her companion’s disdainful tone; “he has 
written plays, too.” 

“ An author, is he ? ” answered Joseph. “ How many 
do you think fail, for every one that succeeds ? ” He 
relapsed into silence for a moment, and then, as if a 
little ashamed of himself, added : “ But it is, neverthe- 
less, a splendid thing to hear our own words and ideas, 
drop from the lips of living beings, and see them stalk- 
ing about in magnificent clothing, before thousands of 
spectators, who weep or laugh as the actors will.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” interrupted Angele, enthusiastically, 


angele’s fortune. 


37 


“ and the orchestra ! and then the applause — hands clap- 
ping simultaneously, as if they belonged all to one 
person. That is magnificent ! ” 

“ You like the theatre, then ? ” 

“ Like it ! No, I adore it ! ” and then she added 
with a heavy sigh ; “ And yet I have never been allowed 
to put my foot inside one, since I was nine years old. 
Before that my mother often took me to the little one 
here. I listened with my heart as well as my ears. It 
was not joy I felt, it was simple ecstasy. All I saw 
and heard remained in my head, and I took to walking 
in my sleep in the middle of the night, and declaiming. 
Then papa got frightened, and said it would never do ; 
that it was too great an excitement; that my nerves 
would suffer ; and, in short, he forbade my going to 
the theatre.” 

“ And he was quite right,” answered Joseph, startled 
at the way in which she spoke. 

“Yes, but I shall go, all the same,” she muttered 
between her teeth. 

“ How will you manage it ? ” 

“ Ah ! that is my secret ! ” she answered, with an 
important little air. 

“Come now,” cried the young man, with a good- 
natured laugh, confide in me ; we have one secret now, 
let us add another to the woodcock.” 

“But you must swear never to breathe one word of 
it to my father! Well, then, ever since the day when 
he declared that I should never enter a theatre again, I 


38 


angele’s foktune. 


have had but one idea, and that was, to go to Paris and 
see some really good actors; so I began to save all the 
gold pieces which were given to me on my birthday — 
at New Year’s — and when the vintage was especially 
fine. Of course I was obliged to be very patient, and 
to practice considerable self-denial, but in nine years I 
have saved quite a little sum ; then, too, my mother has 
helped me.” 

“ And how much have you in your money-box ? ” 
asked Joseph, amused and interested by the girl’s 
story. 

“ I do not know ; I have never dared to look, but it 
is very heavy. On my twentieth birthday I shall open 
it. Then I shall coax my father to let my mother and 
me go to Paris, and we will just live at the theatre ! ” 

She moved her iron nervously over the muslin cur- 
tain, and tossed her head with an impatient movement. 
Joseph began to feel inspired by her enthusiasm. 

“ Just think of it ! ” she said, turning quickly toward 
him. Think of seeing the Opera, and going to the 
Fran^ais — hearing music and poetry in a beautiful 
room, blazing with lights and glittering with toilettes ! 
Oh ! Paris ! ” she cried, absolutely carried off her 
feet by excitement. “ The cards have predicted that I 
shall find my fortune ! Do you believe in cards. Mon- 
sieur Toussaint ? ” 

As Joseph was about to reply, a woman’s voice was 
heard in the corridor. 

“ It is my mother,” said Ang^le, and then added 
rapidly: “ Remember what you are to say at supper.” 


angele’s fortune. 


39 


Madame S^nechal was a little woman, as round as a 
bolster, and quick as a flash, having a still fresh com- 
plexion, slightly marked with smallpox. Her air was 
that of a woman of the people, her eyes were restless 
and crafty, and her tongue always ready to reply. 
Bareheaded at all seasons of the year, she wore her 
scanty hair drawn back from her face, d la Chinoise^ and 
wound in a tight little knot at the back of her head. 
She was always hard at work, paying little attention to 
her toilette. The only relaxation she allowed herself, 
was sometimes of a winter evening, she lay on a lounge 
wrapped in a loose dressing gown, and read a novel. 
Novels were her only passion, and from them her uncul- 
tured mind had acquired some strange chimerical 
notions. 

She adored her daughter. Headstrong and passionate 
toward every body else, Madame S^n^chal was com- 
pletely ruled by Angele, for whom she considered noth- 
ing too beautiful ; and to find the wherewithal to buy a 
new gown for the young girl, her mother would willingly 
have put the whole family on bread and water for a 
week. It is, therefore, easy for my readers to picture 
to themselves the wrath with which Monsieur S^nechal’s 
extravagant indulgence of his epicurean tastes were 
received by her, and also the agony with which, that 
evening, the good man fidgetted on his chair, when 
Angele brought in the salmi which exhaled a most 
appetizing odor. 

“ My dear,” he said, in his pleasant, flute-like voice, 


40 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


“It is a woodcock from Meuntrie, shot by Monsieur 
Toussaint.” 

Madame Sdn^chal glanced at Joseph’s dreamy face — 
which had as little of the expression of a Nimrod as 
could well be imagined — then with another glance at 
her husband of distrust and suspicion, she said to the 
young clerk, in her sharp, decided tones : 

“I congratulate you, sir, on being such a good 
shot!” 

“I, Madame?” murmured Joseph, losing his self- 
possession at the sarcastic inflexion of this terrible 
woman. 

“He has got no sense — no sense whatever” — 
thought Monsieur Sdn^chal, as he unfolded his napkin, 
and bowed his head to the impending storm. 

Suddenly Joseph looked up, and beheld two blue 
eyes looking fixedly upon him. They said to him with 
perfect distinctness — 

“ Courage ! my friend, courage ! ” 

“ I was lucky on that occasion,” he said, in a firm 
voice, “ that fellow I shot just at dawn ; as a general 
thing I can’t boast of my skill with powder and shot.” 

Monsieur Sdn^chal drew a long breath. The girl’s 
face expressed profound gratitude, and Joseph was 
overjoyed to feel that between himself and the young 
girl, there was a secret understanding even on so trivial 
a subject. 

That night the young clerk dreamed, for the first 
time in his life, of a pair of blue eyes. 


angele’s foetune. 


41 


CHAPTER II. 


INVITED TO DINNER 


NE afternoon, Joseph Toussaint was busy in the 



office writing. As he copied page after page, his 
eyes occasionally rested on the vacant desk of the 
amateur clerk. 

“Shall I never see this Monsieur des Armoises?” he 
thought-. 

Since his first interview with the fair AngMe, the 
recollection of what she had said of this mysterious 
Ren^, had often come back to him, and he had grown 
excessively curious in regard to this only son, who had 
wealth and good looks, who wrote poetry, and, “ who 
rode horseback like an angel.” 

“ I am certain,” he said, “ that I shall be disappointed 
in him. Nevertheless, I should really like to make his 
acquaintance. 

Suddenly the office door was burst open, as if by a 
whirlwind, and a young man wrapped in a heavy fur 
coat entered. He shook hands cordially with Monsieur 
S^ndchal, with a merry laugh, and exchanged a friendly 
good morning with the other clerks. 

Joseph straightened himself up a little, and examined 
the new comer with keen attention. Ren4 des Armoises 
threw his overcoat on a table, and then went to the 


42 


angele’s fortune. 


stove, standing with his back toward it and talking as 
fast as possible. He was apparently about twenty-four, 
tall and well made, elegantly but very simply dressed. 
His brown eyes were frank and clear, his broad fore- 
head and crisp curls spoke of intellect and strength. 
The imperious expression of the upper part of the face 
was corrected by the joyous smiles of a somewhat sen- 
sual mouth, which was half concealed by a heavy black 
beard — the tout ensemble irresistibly reminded one of 
the energetic, passionate physiognomy of the bust of 
Lucius Verus, to be seen at the Louvre. In the man- 
ners of the young man, there was a certain ease and 
dash which pleased Joseph, while at the same time it 
disconcerted him. 

At this moment Lawyer Boblique opened the door 
of his private office, nodded to Rene, and asked Tous- 
saint if his papers were ready. He ran them hastily 
over : — 

“Very well,” he said, “Beaurain is ill and confined 
to the house. Take this paper to him for his signature, 
and remember that you must not leave without the 
money. You will go with Monsieur des Armoises, who 
will show you the way to Le Chanois. It is a fine day,” 
added the lawyer, turning toward Rend, “ and the walk 
will do you good.” 

Rend bowed, and put on his coat, while Joseph folded 
the papers. The two young men were soon outside, 
and rapidly passing through the town found themselves 
soon on the road which leads to the Plaine de Viel. 


angele’s fortune. 


43 


It was clean walking, for the snow of the previous 
week had been well trodden, and was now frozen hard. 

“ Do you smoke ? ” asked des Armoises, extending to 
Toussaint a cigar case. 

“ Thank you,” replied the country boy awkwardly. 
“ I have my pipe.” 

He filled it slowly, while Ren^ lighted a cigar, with a 
little shrug of the shoulders which seemed to say: 
“ He is a bear, but after all, what do I care ! ” 

The two young men walked on in silence. Joseph 
was excessively anxious to hear his companion talk, 
having promised himself, on starting, to have that 
amusement, but it was not so easy a thing as he fancied. 

Ren^ seemed to be thoroughly indifferent to his com- 
panion. . He looked at the landscape, hummed an opera 
air, and replied by the briefest monosyllables, to Tous- 
saint’s infrequent remarks. It was in this fashion that 
they reached the Farm du Ch^nois where Lawyer Bob- 
lique’s client dwelt. He was a farmer who was always 
behind hand with his rent, and the owner of the 
premises threatened to turn him out. 

Before the threats and the papers brought by Joseph, 
the sick and recreant debtor wilted entirely, and the 
gold pieces were reluctantly counted down. 

“ Another victim of Boblique’s ! ” said Ren^, as they 
turned their faces homeward. 

“Are you in earnest,” cried Joseph, coloring at these 
words. 

“ Am I in earnest? Well, rather! You do not know 


44 


angele’s fortune. 


your master yet, and have little idea of the ingenuity 
with which he gathers in the money of other people. 
You are new in the office — it is easy to see that ! And 
how do you think you shall like the business? ” 

“Not at all,” answered Toussaint in a dreamy tone. 
I came here because my elder brother desired it, but I 
begin to dislike it intensely.” 

“Is that so? I did just the same thing. I entered 
Boblique’s office to please an old uncle, whose heir 
I have since become. Now that I am my own master, 
back I go to Paris, and in three months shall again 
begin to live, as I understand the word.” 

“And how do you understand it?” asked Joseph. 

“ By living, I mean movement. A life filled with a 
succession of passionate emotion. Novelty is as neces- 
sary to me as bread, and fills me with an energy that 
here I never feel.” 

“ How tastes differ ! ” exclaimed Joseph. “ What I 
like, is absolute and entire solitude. A solitude filled 
with books. A quiet country village, or a farm house 
shut in by trees, undisturbed by a sound, except from 
the poultry yard. That is what I enjoy! I adore 
nature, and I never tire of the same scene.” 

“You are a dreamer then,” remarked Ren^, looking 
at J oseph with more interest than before. 

“ And you a poet ! ” replied Toussaint, with a smile. 

“ Who told you so ? ” 

“Monsieur S^n^chal’s daughter, who knows your 
verses by heart.” 


angele’s foktune. 


46 


“Ah! Mademoiselle AngMe I ” exclaimed Rene, 
highly gratified. “ She is a very pretty girl. I hope 
you are paying your court to her.” 

“I!” stammered Joseph. “I shall never take the 
liberty.” 

“ And why not ? ” interrupted des Armoises. “ You 
should adore all that is adorable — beautiful women — 
luminous skies — glowing colors. Look! is not that 
magnificent ! ” 

And he pointed out to his companion the white and 
sunny plain stretched before them. In a hollow lay 
the farm house they had just left, from its chimneys 
rose a light bluish smoke — beyond, the wooded hills 
overlapped each other, and their last outlines were lost 
in a soft grey mist. 

“ This silent symphony is exquisite,” resumed Ren^. 
All these varied tones are in perfect unison, and the 
clear blue of the sky harmonises with the forest, whose 
every twig clothed in ice, takes a bluish tinge. How 
beautiful ! ” 

He was evidently sincere as he gazed, his eyes flashed 
with enthusiasm, and he threw back his shoulders and 
drank in the fresh, keen air with delight. 

Joseph watched him in mute surprise. Far off on 
the plain were seen two women bending under the 
weight of their fagots of dead wood. They moved 
slowly over the snow, and when they reached the 
highway, one of them sat down near the young 
men to rest. She was old and decrepit, long locks of 


46 


angele’s fortune. 


gray hair fell over her wrinkled cheeks, her eyes had 
the mournful expression of a beast of burthen, and her 
gaunt form tottered under the burthen she bore. 

Joseph looked at her sadly, and walked on, thought- 
fully. 

“ That old woman has an immortal soul, as well as 
ourselves,” he said, sadly, to des Armoises. “ She 
has had nothing in this life. What think you, will be 
her fate in the next world — will the deprivations here 
be made up to her there ? I confess, that troubles me 
sometimes.” 

Ken^ uttered a long, low whistle. 

“ What a strange fellow ! ” he thought. 

“ Life is too short,” he said, aloud, “ for us to spend 
it in guessing riddles. Philosophical problems fatigue 
the mind uselessly ; the contemplation of sordid reali- 
ties, weighs down the imagination. I don’t like to 
wade in the mud myself, with the rain pouring down 
my back.” 

“Good heavens!” cried Joseph, lifting his eyes in 
astonishment to heaven. 

“All artists and poets are alike,” he continued. 
“You pitilessly cut all the chords of humanity which 
do not vibrate according to your own fancies. You 
have no conception of Duty, it seems to me.” 

“ Duty I ” replied Ren4, with a laugh. “ Duty is a 
scarecrow placed in the field of dreams, to frighten 
away the poet who ventures to pluck forbidden fruit.” 
And the young man looked about him with an air of 
haughty defiance. 


angele’s fortune. 


47 


“ Our strongest duty, we owe to ourselves,” he said, 
slowly, “ and to Art — and Art can only be developed 
through the imagination — which necessarily tramples 
on conventional prejudices.” 

Joseph turned and looked at his companion with a 
sort of fear. Rent’s haughty profile was clearly cut 
against the red of the sunset sky. He was forced, in 
spite of himself, to admire the young man, and he felt 
a certain sympathy with his enthusiasm and strength of 
will. This silent admiration was not lost on Ren^, and 
influenced him in favor of Toussaint, who after a short 
silence, said ; 

“ Your words upset all my preconceived opinions. 
You have not convinced me, and yet, I am silent. A 
simple village youth can not argue with a student like 
yourself.” 

Ren^ laughed and clapping his companion on the 
shoulder, he said, gayly : 

“ You are an original ! I like you. Let us be 
friends.” 

By this time, they had reached an elevation which 
commanded the town. Twilight was creeping gently 
over the scene. On the side of the town where the 
manufactories all lay, the forges shone brightly, and 
rows of windows were lighted, one after another. The 
far off hills were lost in the mist, and the notes of a 
hand organ came toward them on the breeze. 

“ Let us be friends ! ” repeated Ren^. “ And to 
inaugurate our friendship, you will come home to-night 


48 


angele’s foktune. 


and dine with me. I will present you to my mother, 
show you my books, and sing for you.” 

This promise of friendship, this unexpected hospital- 
ity, touched Joseph. He consented at once to the 
proposition, saying that he must, however, hand the 
money to lawyer Boblique, and notify Monsieur 
Sdndchal. 

“ I will not leave you,” said Ren^, gayly ; and he did, 
in fact, accompany Joseph to the office, and then to 
la Rue des Savonnaires, and finally took the young man 
to his home, in the best part of Bay. 

“ Dear mother ! ” he said, as he entered a salon 
where a lady sat with her work, at the corner of the 
fire, “ this is one of my fellow clerks. Monsieur Tous- 
saint. We have had a long walk together in the snow, 
and have sworn eternal friendship on the way — a 
friendship now to be cemented by a good dinner and a 
good fire.” 

“You are very welcome, sir,” said Madame des 
Armoises, rising with an air which was both courteous 
and haughty. 

While Ren^ kissed his mother with demonstrative 
affection, Joseph stood looking at this tall, elegant 
woman, whose beauty was unmarred by Time, and 
whose fifty years were indicated only by a becoming 
embonpoint. He recognized in the broad brow, brown 
eyes and firmly chiselled lips, the same intellect which 
was the predominant characteristic of her son’s face. 
Only, with the mother, the imperious expression was 
not tempered by his laughing lips and jocund air. 


angele’s fortune. 


49 


Notwithstanding all her efforts to be affable, Madame 
des Armoises was imperious in every gesture, word and 
movement. 

While Ren^ asked his mother what she had been 
doing all day, Joseph looked about the salon with its 
thick, soft carpets, heavy hangings and family portraits, 
all of which, in his eyes, indicated princely luxury; 
and when, in the dining-room, he saw the table with its 
flowers and glittering silver, softly lighted by a lamp 
hung from the ceiling, he mentally compared it to the 
S^n^chal establishment. As his hand touched the 
satiny damask, he involuntarily thought of the ple- 
beian varnished cloth at Madame Sdn^chal’s. 

All was novel to him here, — the arrangement of the 
table, the chafing dishes, the very way in which Ren^ 
and his mother used their forks and broke their bread* 
He looked on in wonder at the attentions Madame des 
Armoises lavished on her son, whom she worshiped and 
spoiled. 

If the table was gay with flowers in the middle of 
January, it was because Ren^ could not exist without 
flowers ; that wine which they drank from glasses frail 
and delicate as bubbles, was Rent’s wine. As to Ren4 
himself, he seemed to move in this atmosphere of atten- 
tion like a fish in water. He allowed himself to be 
adored, emptied his glass gayly, and uttered witticism 
after witticism, which his mother, in her turn, drank as 
if it were the choicest wine, and which finally, did their 
work of intoxication on Joseph himself. So great was 
3 


50 


angele’s fortune. 


the effect produced on the somewhat lethargic nature 
of Joseph, that when dinner was over and his happy 
host went out for a moment to light the fire in his own 
sanctum, his guest burst out involuntarily and as if he 
were alone : 

“ A most rich and generous nature ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Madame des Armoises, whose heart was 
at once won, “you recognize his talent, do you not?” 

“ Yes,” answered Joseph, “ I do indeed. But, dear 
Madame, you spoil him. His life cannot always be as 
happy as it is now.” 

“ He can at all events,” she answered, “ look back on 
these days with me, as having been days of unalloyed 
bliss.” She then went on to say how much she loved 
her only son. She had been early left a widow, and 
had never wished to marry again. “No one,” she 
added, “ should come between her and her boy. She 
wished,” she said, “ to see him famous and well married; 
and yet,” she added, with a smile, “ I know I should be 
horribly jealous of any woman whom he loved.” 

Joseph thought with a pang of this mother love, and 
remembered that he, the last of the eleven Toussaints, 
had lost his mother when he was less than a year old. 

When they had finished their coffee. Rend took him 
to his den, as he called the charming room where Avere 
his piano and his books, and played to him for an hour. 

“ Well,” said the poet, when Toussaint rose to depart, 
“ are you sorry you came ? ” 

“I am very glad,” answered Joseph, in his strongest 


angele’s fortune. 51 

German accent, for when he was moved by emotion, he 
relapsed into his provincial intonation. “There are 
two men in me — the dreamer and the savage. I am 
glad that you divined the one under the skin of the 
other.” 

He returned to his lodgings, subjugated and en- 
chanted. 

“ Yes, we are friends,” he said, some days later, in 
reply to Angele’s questions. Then he added, in his 
picturesque phraseology, “ we are friends, although he 
is far cleverer than I ; but I have more heart than he 
has. His glass is always full of sparkling, foaming 
wine, while I only pour into mine a little claret. It may 
have an earthy flavor, but it is warming and strength- 
ening. Sometimes we may change our glasses, and to 
do so occasionally, will be mutually advantageous.” 

In fact, after this first interview, the two men be- 
came very intimate, and Ren^ often went to la Rue des 
Savonnaires to find Toussaint ; but he also went at 
hours when he knew his friend must be in the office. 
Under pretext of waiting for him, he would take a 
chair in the room where Angele sat sewing, with her 
mother. Ren^ had the faculty of being thoroughly at 
ease with people of all stations in life, and also of 
putting them equally at their ease. He, therefore, soon 
conquered Madame Sen^chal’s heart. He liked to make 
Angele talk, and found infinite amusement in her girlish 
enthusiasm. Knowing that she had learned his verses, 
he made her repeat them, corrected her whenever her 


52 


angele’s fortune. 


interpretation did not satisfy him, and applauded gayly 
when she followed his instruction. 

Madame S^ndchal listened to her daughter with 
pleasure, with no comprehension of the words she 
uttered, however, but she delighted in any opportu- 
nity of displaying her daughter’s talents. After Rent’s 
departure, the girl would often go to the window, and, 
with her forehead pressed to the glass, would listen to 
the monotonous swash of the water, and never realize 
that night had come, so bright was the light of hope 
within herself. 

Thanks to Des Armoises, Joseph was becoming quite 
a polished member of society. Ren^ took him to the 
theatre, to dinners and assemblies, and introduced him 
everywhere as his friend. Toussaint, however, found 
little enjoyment in this exciting life. He was really 
happier in the S^n^chal mansion, with AngMe and her 
mother, than anywhere else. After supper. Monsieur 
S^n^chal, who was in mortal dread of apoplexy, always 
went out to walk. Joseph then read aloud to the two 
women, who worked at their embroidery, and whose 
bent heads nearly touched each other under the shaded 
lamp. 

It was so restful there, with the doors shut, the cur- 
tains drawn close, and the dash of the water under 
the windows. 

At nine o’clock. Monsieur S^n^chal returned, his 
pockets stuffed with chestnuts. Taking a penknife, he 
carefully cut a slit in the side of each, and laid them on 


angele’s fortune. 


53 


the top of the stove — their crackling and snapping 
making an accompaniment to Joseph’s reading. By 
degrees the tempting odor of the roasting chestnuts 
filled the room — the old clerk brought out a bottle 
of wine, and the four ate their simple supper, amid 
jests and laughs. Madame Sen^chal, softened by the 
wine, would then bring out a pack of cards and, with 
the greatest gravity, proceed to tell Ang^le’s fortune, 
the girl listening, with heightened color and bated 
breath. 

There was always a stranger, who would come from 
a great distance and bring with him much wealth. 

“ And, after all,” said Madame S^nechal, when her 
husband laughed at her, “there would be nothing so 
very strange in that. My grandfather had an uncle, 
who went away, a great many years ago, to the East 
Indies. Who knows that he did not become rich ? that 
he did not have descendants? and that we shall not 
hear of them yet? Much stranger things than that 
have happened, we all know ! ” 

Joseph listened to all this, and, as he looked at the 
young girl, wished, with all his heart, that the stranger 
from a great distance, would come with a fortune for the 
pretty creature. 

He had become each day more and more interested in 
AngHe, who had finally taken possession of his heart. 
Up to this time women had played no part in Joseph’s 
life — in fact, he had known none save his sister Gene- 
vieve — consequently, all the region of feminine love was 


54 angele’s foktune. 

to him like those white spaces on geographical maps 
marked “ unexplored countrie%r Since he had taken up 
his abode in the S^ndchal mansion, he fancied that he 
had made some little advances in his explorations of 
this unknown land. 

AngMe has fascinated him without any premeditation 
on her part. She had treated him precisely as she had 
treated his predecessor — with gay indifference — but 
even that, was enough to make Joseph quite happy. 
He belonged to that very small class in this world who 
give much and ask little. His imagination had the 
property, like certain lenses, of tripling the rays which 
passed through them. 

The smallest friendly word assumed to him, the pro- 
portions of a caress. A smile from Angele kept him 
warm all day, and at night, when he went up to his 
dingy room after pressing her hand, he passed a wake- 
ful, but happy night. His favorite dream was of a tiny 
house at Alberstroff, with a garden full of fruit trees. 
He saw this cottage, and always with a blue-eyed 
woman, in a white dress, standing in the doorway. 

This was Joseph’s castle in the air. 

This household seemed all to lean toward castles in 
the air, for they were built by all its members. It was 
as if the fogs from the canal were favorable for the con- 
struction of these shadowy edifices. Within their alcove 
Monsieur Senechal and his wife spent many an hour, 
edifying each other with stories. The old clerk’s 
castles were possibly a little common-place, but they 


angele's fortune. 55 

were square and solid, while those of his wife were frail 
and delicate, but rose to immeasurable heights. Unfor- 
tunately, however, a staircase was generally lacking, 
and one could ascend them only with wings. The 
husband and wife agreed only on one point — the castle 
of each, was built for Angdle’s exclusive use. 

Monsieur S^n^chal wished her to marry a good, 
honest, steady fellow like Joseph Toussaint, but his 
wife heard his plebeian name with a shudder. She 
wanted a more distinguished son-in-law — a man of the 
world — an artist — some one, in fact, like Monsieur des 
Armoises. That was the kind of man whom Ang^le 
ought to marry. 

Thereupon Monsieur S^n^chal would shrug his 
shoulders, fly into a passion, and exclaim : 

“ Are you crazy ? He should not marry Angele were 
his fortune twice what it is ! A scatterbrain — a hanger 
on at the theatres, who will ruin himself sooner or 
later, and all who belongs to him.” 

In the meantime, this scatterbrain of whom the old 
clerk stood in such mortal terror, was conspiring quietly 
to take AngMe to a subscription ball, of which he was 
one of the managers. He had thrown off his mourn- 
ing for his uncle, and before leaving for Paris he 
wished to have “ one more jolly time,” as he phrased it, 
in Bay. 

Joseph, led away by the prospect of a waltz with 
AngHe, entered into the plot, and had even invested 
his savings in a dress coat. Up to this time he had 


56 


angele's foktune. 


looked upon this as an extravagance, but the idea of 
dancing with Ang^le impelled him to the rash deed. 
Angele’s toilette had been secretly prepared, for more 
than a fortnight, when Monsieur S^n^chal reluctantly 
gave his consent, and then only on condition that he 
should not be made to go. It was therefore with her 
mother and Joseph that Ang^le entered the public ball- 
room. She was simply but freshly dressed in white 
tarletan. 

Madame Sen^chal, gorgeous in a flanie-colored silk, 
held her head high, happy in her anticipation of the 
effect which her daughter’s beauty would excite. 

Ang^le, who had never before been at a ball, was 
enchanted at the lights, the flowers and the toilettes. 
Hardly was she seated, than the orchestra played a 
waltz, and Toussaint offered his arm. The girl would 
have been glad to make her d^but with a more brilliant 
partner, but she had given her word to Joseph, and they 
took their places. The young man had declared that 
he could waltz, and well, but after a few turns the poor 
fellow found himself embarrassed among the trains — 
elbowed, and knocked, and lost the time completely. 
No notion had he, however, of giving up — waltz he 
would — and he dragged the unfortunate Ang^e along 
in spite of her protestations. 

At this moment Ren^ passed them. 

“ WiU you not give me a turn,” he said, and without 
the smallest ceremony, he slipped his arm round the 
girl’s waist and bore her off from the astonished Joseph, 


angele’s fortune. 


57 


who stood looking after the pair as they glided around 
the room. 

“ Yes ! he does dance better than I ! ” said Toussaint, 
bravely. 

It was a pleasure to see them, and they talked as 
they danced. 

“ I have never danced with you before, Made- 
moiselle,” murmured Ren^. 

“Nor will you again, as you are about to leave Bay. 
When are you going ? ” 

“ On Sunday,” and as he spoke his eyes sparkled, so 
pleased was he at the thought of seeing Paris once 
more. 

“ How happy you look ! You will forget Bay and 
its inhabitants,” she added with a half sigh. 

“ You are mistaken. I never forget my friends, and 
I shall often think of the old house in La Rue de 
Savonnaires, where the water ripples ^ softly under 
the windows.” 

“ Truly ?” she said, and her face brightened. The 
waltz was over. He took her back to her place, and 
she sat with thoughts far away from the scene before 
her, watching him as he moved about the room. She 
regarded him as a demigod, and almost wondered at 
his condescension in mingling with the common herd, 
and accepting their admiration. 

The ball was at its height, when about midnight an 
event occurred, which was the precursor of many 
events in the calm monotonous society of Bay, which 
are talked of even to this day. 


58 


angele’s fortune. 


A quadrille was just over and the centre of the ball- 
room was unoccupied, when an old lawyer named Bouil- 
lard came in. This gentleman had never been seen at 
a ball before, but the general astonishment at his 
entrance was heightened by seeing with him a stranger 
whose general air and dress made a great impression. 

“ Permit me,” said the lawyer to one of the managers, 
“ to present to you. Monsieur Gaspard La Genevraie, a 
celebrated traveller who comes now from Java, having 
just been round the world for the second time.” 

The stranger bowed with a haughty air, throwing out 
his full chest, and hollowing in the waist which was 
still slender, although he was at least fifty years old. 
His pearl gray pantaloons looked as if he were melted 
and run into them, being literally without a wrinkle. 
His coat was turned back with velvet in the style of 
1830, and gave him the look of one of the lions, cele- 
brated by Balzac, and illustrated by Gavarni. His 
cravat of white silk was loosely knotted under a turn- 
over collar and showed a well modeled throat. 

A large and powerfully-made head was covered with 
thick hair which, like the moustache was carefully dyed. 
The forehead was crossed by several deep wrinkles, 
a large aquiline nose with wide expanded nostrils, and 
an olive complexion, with eyes which had not lost their 
brilliancy, completed the physique of the stranger. His 
eyelids were heavy, shorn of lashes, and veined with 
thready lines of red, showing that the man had used, 
and abused life. His mouth, drooping at the corners, 


angele’s fortune. 


59 


indicated this also, its expression was cynical and worn, 
but when these eyes and this mouth were animated in 
conversation, one was tempted to believe, that the man 
was twenty years younger than he had looked when 
his face was in repose. 

Gaspard de Genevraie was in reality one of the last 
of that eccentric generation, who from 1835 to 1840, 
flourished as the champions of romance. 

After having attempted a literary career, he threw 
himself into politics, in the same way that an unappre- 
ciated painter plunges into photography. In 1848 he 
was the president of a club, and a conspicuous public 
speaker ; all at once he vanished like a meteor from the 
sky. After a time he was heard of in Mexico, and 
again in California. He had tried everything, social- 
ism — religion — work — he had even been consul in 
some town in the Malayan Archipelago. Now, as the 
lawyer Bouillard stated, he had returned from Java, 
and had come into port like a solid ship, which has 
weathered many a tough gale, but which still keeps a 
bold face, in spite of its broken masts and tattered 
sails. 

Standing leaning against the railing of the orchestra 
with one leg lightly crossed over the other, and one 
thumb in his vest, he looked about the room and 
occasionally exchanged a word with the lawyer at 
his side. 

“ Do you see,” said the lawyer, “ that lady in red, 
seated by the side of a young girl in white. 


60 


angele’s fortune. 


“Yes,” answered La Genevraie, in a full deep voice. 
“I see them both — the little girl is very pretty, with 
her dreamy angelic air, but the mother looks like an 
old woman who keeps an apple stand at the corner of 
the street.” 

“Hush!” said the lawyer, “the mother represents 
one of the principal branches of that Morel family, of 
which we were speaking.” 

“ The deuce she does I Then my dear sir, pray take 
me to her, and introduce me.” 

The lawyer, followed by his companion, went at once 
to Madame Sdn^chal, who opened her eyes wide, as he 
said something to her in a low voice. 

“ Have I ever heard of a relative who went to India, 
do you ask,” cried the good lady aloud. “ To be sure 
I have ; it was an uncle of my grandfather’s, a certain 
Jacques Morel, who had left Bay before the revolution, 
and of whom we have never heard since.” 

“Well then, I can tell you of him — or rather Mon- 
sieur Genevraie will — He will tell you that your rela- 
tive died in that foreign land, and left no children to 
inherit his large fortune.” 

“ A colossal fortune, Madame,” interrupted La Gene- 
vraie, bowing. “Jacques Morel died in 1825, at 
Batavia, where I have recently been. He was never 
married, and died intestate, so that his magnificent 
property is held by the Holland government in default 
of known heirs.” 

“ But I represent one of these heirs ! ” cried Madame 
Sdnechal, who thought herself dreaming. 


angele’s fortune. 


61 


“ In that case, Madame,” replied La Genevraie, with 
his theatrical manner, “ permit me to congratulate 
you heartily. I have it my power to give you all 
the information you require, in order to claim your 
heritage.” 

“ Holy Virgin ! ” said Madame S^n^chal, “ and how 
much is this fortune ? ” 

“ At least twenty-four million francs.” 

The lady turned pale, and seemed about to faint. 

“Yes, Madame,” repeated La Genevraie in audible 
tones, looking about him. “ Twenty-four millions francs 
without estimating the interest.” 


62 


angele’s foktune. 


CHAPTER III. 


ALADDINS LAMP. 


HE following Sunday, the inhabitants of La Rue 



X des Juifs, where resided the lawyer Bouillard, 
witnessed a spectacle as unusual as it was singular. 
From early morning the house had been fairly beseiged 
by clients, so that the old servant, tired out with going 
to the door, finally left it half open and called from the 
kitchen when she heard a knock : 

“ Come in ! come in ! ” 

The waiting room was filled with the noisy visitors, 
who sat in rows along the walls. There were silk 
weavers from the faubourgs, grape growers bent double 
by their toil in their vineyards, women in their Sunday 
gowns, and peasants in blue blouses. Shop keepers, 
farmers and working men were all there, looking at 
each other distrustfully. 

Throw out a few crumbs to a sparrow, who is hop- 
ping about on your balcony. In less than one second, 
warned by some strange instinct, all the sparrows in the 
neighborhood will flock there and quarrel and fight 
until the last crumb is gone. Thus it was with the 
Morel inheritance. The news told by La Genevraie, 
had spread in a twinkling all over the town. The 
memory of Jacques Morel, hitherto dormant in the 


angele’s fortune. 


63 


minds of some of the old men, now sprung to life with 
extraordinary distinctness. This lost child, to whom 
no one had given a second thought, and who had left 
his native land, shaking the dust off his feet, was now 
a sort of hero. 

Every human being in Bay and in its vicinity — and 
their number was great — who bore the name of Morel, 
hurried to the lawyer, eager for some portion of the 
twenty-four millions. Tales of unexpected inheritances 
and fabulous treasures, always appeal to the masses, 
who, restless under the burthen of daily toil, dream of 
fortunes falling from the sky like miraculous manna. 

This was the same at Bay. All the Morels listened 
with watering mouths to the communications made by 
La Genevraie. Among the most eager as well as the 
most credulous, was Madame Sciiechal. She was the 
first person to call on the lawyer, and with her was 
Angele. 

“ Who will venture, in future, to disbelieve in 
cards?” she said to some one she met there. “For 
the last fortnight they have persistently predicted this 
event. You remember, AngMe? A stranger from a 
great distance, with money, you know ! ” 

Not only did the good woman believe in this glowing 
tale of the fortune that lay idle, waiting for the heirs, 
but she had offered the best room in her house to La 
Genevraie ; for, with him under her roof, she seemed 
much nearer the inheritance; so she waited on the 
Parisian by inches, who in return raised for her a 


64 


angele's fortune. 


corner of the vail which yet shrouded the mysterious 
splendors of the Morel succession. 

La Genevraie himself as fully believed in these 
millions as he believed in anything, and in reality, the 
story was not entirely a fiction. A certain Morel, 
originally from Lorraine, had accumulated a fortune 
when in Batavia, and while Gaspard was in Java, he 
had heard the subject frequently discussed. He had 
heard the tale as he would one from the Arabian 
Nights ; but after his return to Paris, the subject took 
a strong hold on his imagination, and he spoke of it at 
a dinner one day, at which the lawyer Bouillard was 
present. Under the influence of wine and a good 
dinner, the large fortune of the unknown man quad- 
rupled, and it was moreover decided that he could have 
been none other than the Morel from Bay. The notion 
gratified the chimerical brain of the lawyer and the 
adventurous spirit of La Genevraie. 

Without troubling himself as to how the identity 
of the two Morels could be established clearly enough 
to induce the Holland government to relinquish their 
prize, the lawyer and La Genevraie at once put the 
story in circulation. 

In the office there was a low buzz followed by a 
profound silence, when the door opened and the lawyer 
and his companion entered. After being formally 
presented to the assembly. La Genevraie took the floor. 
Standing half-leaning against a high desjk, with his 
light coat well buttoned over his swelling chest, the 


angele’s fortune. 


65 


orator of the day began an enthusiastic account of the 
Morel fortune. His magnificent air and his strong 
language made a profound impression on his hearers, 
while he, excited by the effect he produced, described 
the riches of the nabob. He painted marble pal- 
aces, approached through avenues of^ magnificent 
trees, bananas and palms; the snowy fields of coffee 
blossoms, with their delicious odor; the sandalwood 
boxes, opening to disclose rich stuffs and jewels ; the 
crowd of bronze servants in rose-colored drapery ; the 
silver trays, heaped with tropical fruits. His audience 
listened with breathless interest, open-mouthed and 
eager. Madame S^n^chal lost not one syllable ; she sat 
with her hands nervously pressed together. In short, 
the orator met with such a brilliant success, that 
when he had finished, all the future heirs burst into 
frantic applause, and immediately agreed to raise three 
thousand francs, to pay the preliminary expenses of 
the investigations. They also agreed to give La Gene- 
vraie a power of attorney to represent the heirs. 

When AngMe and her mother reached home and 
were entering the door, they caught sight of an omni- 
bus driving to the station with Joseph Toussaint and 
Rene des Armoises. Ren4 saw the two ladies and 
waved his hand, while Ang^le, with cheeks suddenly 
flushed, watched the omnibus until it turned the corner. 

Madame des Armoises was not with her son. Ren^, 
who detested scenes, had entreated her to remain at 
home, while she entrusted to Joseph, the duty of seeing 
4 


66 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


her son safely off. Conscientiously and faithfully, did 
J oseph fulfil this duty, bearing the traveller’s coat and 
valise, and finally at the station, he got the ticket and 
registered the luggage, while Rend with his cigar in his 
mouth, idly switched his cane as he walked up and 
down the platform. 

“ Thanks, my good friend,” he said to Toussaint when 
the latter handed him his ticket. “You are one in a 
thousand, and I shall think of you with infinite regret. 
May I depend on you to see my mother occasionally, 
and will you talk to her of me ? ” 

He lighted another cigar, and as he threw away the 
match, he said, carelessly : 

“ This is a most glorious day. One longs for wings 
in such weather, and with such a sky.” 

Joseph was deeply troubled. He clearly saw that 
Rend was leaving without one single regret, and that 
he would toss aside all his past life, with as much 
indifference as he did his burned match. 

“ This spring sunshine and soft air,” continued des 
Armoises, “imparts to me new vigor. I shall work 
like a tiger, in Paris. I do not yet know what I shall 
do, but it will be something that will make me famous. 
I am only afraid of dying before I have made myself a 
name. There comes the train ! ” 

The platform was soon covered with luggage and 
travellers who had got out for a moment to stretch 
their limbs, while boys ran briskly from car to car 
crying the products of the country. 


angele's fortune. 


67 


“ Good-by, Joseph,” cried Ren^, as he sprang lightly 
into a compartment. As soon as my first volume is 
printed I will send it to you.” 

“ Do not forget us,” said Joseph, considerably moved. 
“ Indeed I will not, and I shall hope to see you in 
Paris ere long. Good-by, my boy ! ” 

The doors were closed and the locomotive rushed 
away, leaving silence and loneliness behind. During 
this time Ang^le was alone in her room with the door 
locked. Rent’s departure had driven from her mind 
all the anticipations inspired by the Morel fortune. 
She opened her window and looked toward the station. 
The day was indeed glorious. Against the walls of 
the church a large yellow butterfly was gayly flutter- 
ing. A sharp whistle, and Angele’s heart swelled as 
she saw the smoke from the locomotive. The butterfly 
was gone — the spring air became suddenly sharp and 
wintry. Rend was gone, when would she see him 
again? Should she ever go to Paris, to that distant 
Paris which she longed to behold ! 

And the girl’s melancholy eyes were riveted on that 
distant horizon toward which her poet was flying, like 
the blue bird in a fairy tale. She too longed for wings 
like Rend, and fretted at her imprisonment. From the 
church came rich music, fragments of chants and the 
roll of the organ mingling with her reverie. She 
thought of the hours Rend had spent with her mother 
and herself — of the waltz with her at the ball — of his 
verses, which he had taught her to repeat — and almost 


68 


angele’s fortune. 


mechanically she recited them aloud; they were all 
that were left now that the poet had fled. 

She left the window and stood near the chimney, 
while the lines dropped from her lips. The rhythm 
calmed her, and her grief was soothed by their music. 
Insensibly she raised her voice, and she fancied that 
never had she recited Rent’s verses so well. 

“ Bravo ! ” cried a voice outside. 

The girl ran to the door and threw it open, and 
beheld, to her great surprise, Gaspard La Genevraie. 

“ Go on. Mademoiselle,” he said, “ go on ! your voice 
is deliciously full and ripe, and your accent precisely 
what it should be. You have a positive talent.” 

La Genevraie was sincere, and Angele, after her 
flrst confusion, recognized this, while her vanity was 
much gratified by the approbation of the Parisian, 
who had seen all the famous actresses of Europe, and 
was a habitu4 of the best theatres. He begged her 
to go on, and took a seat, where, with his legs crossed 
and head thrown back, he listened with the air of a 
connoisseur. 

“ Superb ! wonderful ! ” he would exclaim at inter- 
vals. 

“ My dear child I ” he exclaimed, when AngHe ceased, 
“ with a face and figure like yours, you do not propose, 
I trust, to remain in this hole. It is Paris and the 
stage you require. You would carry the audience by 
storm. Your gestures are easy, the expression and 
contour of your face simply magnificent, while your 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


69 


way of rendering those simple verses is extremely 
piquante. Modesty is not without its charm after all,” 
he added, cynically. “You must exchange this place 
for the luxurious dressing-room of a theatre, just as 
soon as possible, and I promise you that the public 
shall adore the very ground you tread ! ” 

“For Heaven’s sake, never utter such words in my 
father’s hearing,” said AngHe, “ he has an utter horror 
of the theatre.” 

“I am not in the least astonished to hear that,” 
returned La Genevraie, with some impertinence. “ The 
good man is a little old-fashioned, I shall speak to your 
mother — she is different. Good Heavens! must a star 
be treated like a common candle, and snuffed like a 
tallow dip ! When this Morel matter is well under 
way, we will talk of this again.” 

La Genevraie went to find Bouillard, the lawyer, and 
to him spoke with enthusiasm of Ang^le’s talent. 
“ The idea,” he said, “ of finding a treasure like that, in 
such a commonplace household ! ” 

The Morel affair created naturally an immense excite- 
ment. The town was divided for and against, and dis- 
cussed each step with considerable acrimony. Boblique 
was at the head of the unbelievers from the first. 
S^nechal naturally sided with his master, but he was 
not sufficiently master of his own household to oppose 
certain of the heirs meeting at his house. These con- 
ferences too, generally ended in a dinner, and we have 
already discovered the good man’s weakness in that 


70 


angele’s fortune. 


direction. The prospect of an appetizing roast or some 
toothsome sweet dish was quite sufficient to undermine 
his powers of resistance. 

Toussaint took an intense dislike to the Parisian, 
whose theatrical fashions of speech, cynical wit and 
stormy eloquence, awakened all his distrust. He did not 
in the least credit the Morel fortune, and stigmatized 
it as an invention of the Evil One, intended to ruin all 
his hopes of happiness. 

Finally, every necessary power was given to La 
Genevraie. Clothed with these, and having the amount 
raised by the heirs in his pocket, he announced that he 
was ready to start. Moved by gratitude for so much 
kindness, the Morel heirs united to offer a dinner to 
their commissioner. 

This dinner for fifty, was given at the Hotel de Metz. 
La Genevraie occupied the head of the table, while 
Angele and her mother sat on the either side. It was 
really a curious scene, all these people — mostly market 
gardeners and mechanics — seated at this long table, 
glittering with silver and glass. The waiters had infi- 
nite difficulty not to laugh. 

The health of the celebrated traveller. La Genevraie, 
was drank, and he was solemnly thanked for his zeal in 
behalf of the Morel heirs. The traveller listened 
gravely, leaning back in his chair and carelessly brush- 
ing away the crumbs on his cravat; and when the 
attorney, to whom had been entrusted this duty had 
finished, La Genevraie arose, and, in his rich voice and 


angele’s fortune. 


71 


dramatic form of expression, thanked the assembled 
company, and gave a brief sketch of what steps he 
proposed to take. This speech was a success. A glass 
to the memory of Jacques Morel was drank, and then 
songs were proposed. 

La Genevraie shuddered at the very idea, and hastily 
interposed : 

“ I have something better than that to suggest,” he 
said. 

“We have here, gentlemen, a great artist,” he con- 
tinued, “ who will eclipse Rachel, if she will take the 
trouble to try. Ask Mademoiselle S^n^chal to recite to 
you, and, if you can persuade her, you will thank me, 
with tears in your eyes.” 

Angele’s color rose, and then faded until she was pale 
as her dress, but, excited by the scene, the lights and 
the champagne, she yielded to the entreaties, and, rising 
from her chair, began to recite one of Rent’s poems, 
which was at once lyric and descriptive. 

The poet had endeavored to describe the vague 
intoxication produced by the delicate odor of the blos- 
soms of the grape vines in the month of June — the 
breath of spring and the richness of autumn — the songs 
of the vintage and the dance of the peasants. 

The verses were received with applause. Not only 
were these rough, illiterate people thrilled by the musi- 
cal rhythm and by the beauty of Angele, but they were 
touched by the tribute paid to the wine, and the grapes 
of their district. Monsieur Senechal was utterly over- 


12 


angele’s fortune. 


whelmed by his daughter’s success, while his wife wept 
copious tears. 

La Genevraie himself uttered thunders of applause. 
“ Wonderful ! ” he cried. “ Madame,” he said, turning 
to Angle’s mother, “your daughter has enormous 
talent, and talent in our day is a fortune. The doors 
of the Theatre Fran^ais will open wide for her, when- 
ever she issues her commands, and she will make heaps 
of money.” 

“ She will not need to do that,” answered Madame 
Sen^chal, half offended, “for she shall have the millions 
from Batavia ! ” 

“ That is true, but, in the meantime, she possesses 
treasures which are not to be disdained. Your daughter 
has a glorious vocation.” 

Madame S^nechal swallowed all this with avidity, 
while Angele’s heart beat quicker and was filled with 
vague, indefinable hope, like a soft April breeze, 
wherein one can distinguish no distinct perfume, but 
which whispers of spring and flowers. 

The conversation around the table among these poor 
devils, who had never seen a thousand francs at any 
one time, was now of millions. They sipped their wine 
as if it had been liquid gold, and before their troubled 
eyes passed all sorts of gorgeous visions. La Genevraie 
looked on with a sarcastic smile. 

The day after a fet^ is rarely gay. Monsieur S<^ne- 
chal rose with a bitter taste in his mouth, and a heavy 
head. He thought, too, with considerable discomfort. 


angele’s foetune. 


73 


that he had a favor to ask of his master. A couple of 
months’ salary in advance was now a vital necessity to 
him. He had finally agreed to pay his proportion of 
the amount raised by the Morel heirs to push their 
claim, this and the suppers and toilettes for Ang^le, had 
walked away with all his savings. If the old lawyer 
would not advance him something now, Sdn^chal was in 
a very bad box. 

It was, therefore, with a sinking heart that the clerk 
entered his master’s private office and preferred his 
request. The lawyer listened without a word. He 
regarded Sdndchal as having gone over to the enemy, 
and determined to punish him for disregarding his 
advice and opinion. 

“ You want four hundred francs ! You have some 
good investment in view then, I presume ” 

“ No,” replied the other, somewhat embarrassed, “ I 
have a payment to make ; that is all.” 

The lawyer knew the truth in a moment. “ You are 
not in debt, I trust? ” 

“Not exactly, but my wife is one of the Morel heirs, 
and this money ” 

“ Ah ! I understand,” replied his master, in a chilling 
tone. “ I am sorry not to oblige you, but I really have 
no money to throw away ” 

“ Do you think I will not return it ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? What confidence can I place in a 
man who is simple enough, to be carried away by such 
folly? I am even forced to doubt the propriety of 


74 


angele’s fortune. 


entrusting to you the management of my personal 
affairs ” 

S^n^chal turned very red. He was deeply wounded 
and mortified. 

“ I am sorry, sir,” he said, in a trembling voice, “ that 
you have any reason to doubt my honesty. Do you 
take me for a rascal ? ” 

“No, sir; I take you for a fool!” thundered the 
exasperated lawyer; “and I say, moreover, that my 
affairs are in as great danger in the hands of a fool, 
as of a rascal.” 

Sdnechal’s blue eyes flashed, as they never had flashed 
before. He went to his desk, emptied it of all the 
papers and account-book. With these and the key of 
the safe, he returned to his master’s private office. 

“ Have the goodness, sir, to look over these accounts,” 
said S^n^chal. “ You have known me for thirty years. 
If my faithful service for all that time, is no guarantee 
of my honesty, we had best part, and you can find some 
one in my place.” 

The lawyer settled his spectacles. “You are very 
proud, it seems to me,” he said, grimly, as he drew the 
papers toward him, “ but I suppose that may be expected 
in a millionaire. I will look over your accounts when I 
have time.” 

nuchal drew from his pocket a bunch of keys and 
laid them silently on the desk. Then he took his hat 
and went to the door. 

“ Good-by, sir,” he said. 


angele’s fortune. 


75 


“ Good-by, sir,” repeated the lawyer, coldly. “ I trust 
that Jacques Morel’s millions will be as tangible as you 
believe. Remember, however, that a man does not 
return to my service as easily as he leaves it.” 

S^n^chal went home with an aching heart. 

“ What is the matter ? ” cried Ang^e, seeing him so 
pale. “ Why are you home so early from the office ? ” 
“ I shall never go to the office again,” said Monsieur 
S^n^chal, sinking into a chair. “ I am good for nothing 
any more ! ” 


76 


angele’s fortune. 


CHAPTER IV 

A NEW ADVISER. 

HAT is the use of being so miserable ! ” cried 



T T Madame Sen^chal, when she heard the news, 
you only leave the old miser a little sooner, that is 
all ! Keep up your heart — have a little patience — and 
we will make this man ashamed of himself. Besides, 
our vineyard promises well this year, the frost has not 
touched the vines, and we shall have quantities of 
grapes in October. This is a trifling misfortune after 


all ! ” 


But Monsieur S^n^chal would not allow himself to 
be consoled. This dismissal, or rather enforced resig- 
nation of his position in the lawyer’s office, was a severe 
blow to him, and he fell ill. When he grew better he 
wandered about the house, following his wife into the 
kitchen. He did not know what to do with himself, 
for his life had been hitherto so fully occupied, that 
idleness was unknown to him. After dinner he fell 
into a sleep, so heavy that it worried Angele, who had 
more sympathy for her father’s sufferings than had her 
mother. She adored her father, and tried in a thousand 
ways to cheer him. She begged him to walk with her 
on the green hills which overlooked the town. 

“ Come, papa,” she cried, “ this spring air and sun- 
shine will lighten your heart ! ” 


angele’s fortune. 


77 


Alas ! the swelling buds only reminded Monsieur 
S^n^chal that he might be compelled to sell his vine- 
yard, to raise the four hundred francs promised to La 
Genevraie. 

“ No, no,” he answered, “ I do not wish to go out. 
My heart is heavy, dear, at having injured your future 
prospects.” 

But his daughter dragged him off with her. Return- 
ing from one of these walks one day, she went up to 
Toussaint’s room on tiptoe. 

“Will you do me a favor?” she said, hastily. 

“ With all my heart,” answered the youth, with a 
radiant face. 

“ Papa fancies he may have to sell his vineyard, to 
raise the money necessary to push our claim, and this 
idea is killing him. I have just thought of my little 
bank. I am sure there is more than four hundred 
francs in it, and I cannot keep this money while my 
poor papa is so unhappy.” 

“ How good you are, AngMe ! ” 

“ Only he must never know that the money comes 
from me ; and I was thinking that if you would only 
offer it to him in your name ! He likes you, and would 
have no objection to being under obligations to you.” 

“ But,” said Joseph, “ are you willing to give up the 
prospect of Paris?” 

The girl sighed, and it was easy to see that her sacri- 
fice was great. 

“No theatres, you know,” continued Toussaint, 


78 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


provokingly — no prospect of any such enjoyments — 
when you have opened your bank ! ” 

“ Why do you dwell on that ? ” interrupted Angele, 
impatiently ; “ will you, or will you not, do me this 
favor ? ” 

Tears were in her eyes, and Joseph longed to snatch 
her hand. 

“ Yes,” he said at last; “I will do this for you, only 
on condition that you shall keep your bank. It would 
be a great pity to open it before the date you fixed for 
yourself.” 

“ I do not understand,” murmured the girl. 

“ Then let me explain. I am not literally without 
resources. I have a small income of twelve hundred 
francs, and I have just received a quarter. I have no 
use for it now. Let me offer it to your father in that 
way. I shall not be compelled to utter a falsehood, 
and we shall be much more comfortable.” 

“ No ! ” she exclaimed, in great confusion; “ I cannot 
accept such a favor ! ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” he answered ; “ it is no such great favor. 
Money is nothing to me. I only care for the pleasure 
it brings me.” 

Angele shook her head. He took her two hands 
gently in his: “You will make me very happy,” he 
said, softly. 

His voice and his eyes were at once so persuasive and 
so honest, that AngMe was deeply moved, and accepted. 
She smded up into the young man’s face, and they 


angele’s fortune. 


79 


stood looking into each other’s eyes. Toussaint’s lips 
parted to utter the words that burned upon them, but 
he colored deeply, restrained himself, and dropped the 
girl’s hands. She went away after thanking him once 
more. 

Before La Genevraie left Bay, he took Angele and 
her mother aside — 

“ Madame,” he said, earnestly, “ you have no right 
to keep your daughter here, where both complexion 
and voice will be faded before she has learned the 
value of either. The stage is her vocation ; and I repeat, 
that her fortune is in her own hand. Your daughter is 
destined to be a Queen on the stage. Her brow is 
worthy of a crown. Take her to Paris ; I know many 
a manager who will gladly engage her. Think of what 
I say, and remember that I am always ready to serve 
you.” 

When Joseph Toussaint saw the omnibus in which 
La Genevraie was seated, turn the corner on its way to 
the station, he uttered a sigh of relief. Monsieur 
chal’s anxieties, and the small service which the young 
man had been enabled to render him, combined to 
attach the young man more strongly than before to 
the simple household, and he devoted his evenings 
to them, listening to the old clerk’s reminiscences, and 
reading aloud. He enjoyed this as long as Angele 
was present, but if she left the room he sighed, and 
grew very absent-minded. 

Monsieur S^n^chal finally discovered this, and 
watched the young man curiously. 


80 


angele’s fortune. 


“ Ah I ha ! ” he thought, “ Joseph is certainly in love 
with Angele. If this is really so, I shall be a happy 
man once more. But bless my soul, how timid he is ! 
He will never dare to speak out, and I shall be obliged 
to extract his secret from him some evening.” 

Angele’s thoughts at the time were leagues away 
from poor Joseph; and, happy in her father’s relief 
from present anxiety, she began to build new castles 
in Spain. Even if the Morel property ended in smoke, 
she had still her own talents, by which she could 
restore prosperity to her home. The idea of being the 
providence and the glory of her family flattered her 
pride and her vanity. On the long evenings in May, 
weary of pricking her fingers with her needle, she 
leaned from her window to drink in the fresh air. She 
thought of nothing but the theatre. Under the oblique 
rays of the setting sun the waters of the canal shim- 
mered with a purple light. Beyond the town, lay the 
vineyards, bathed in gold: fleecy clouds floated over 
the sky, and toward the West took a rosy hue. 

“Actresses are Queens nowadays,” La Genevraie 
had said, and the bells, as they rang out, seemed to 
repeat the phrase; while the swallows, in their rapid 
flight, apparently took their way toward Paris. 

Paris! Paris I Fame and Fortune were there — 
and perhaps Love, too I Did not Ren4 des Armoises 
live in Paris ? If she became a great actress, would he 
not write a play for her? Her glory would diminish 
the present distance between them, and with what joy 


angele's fortune. 


81 


would she lay her crowns at the feet of the only man 
who had ever made her heart beat quicker. These 
ideas haunted her awake and asleep, and affected her 
nerves in such a way, that she began to walk in her 
sleep as she had done in her childhood. 

Weeks were passing rapidl}^ away^ and the Morel 
heirs began to grow impatient, when one day came a 
letter from La Genevraie, accompanied by a box con- 
taining a magnificent bouquet for AngMe. 

In the letter La Genevraie stated that he had begun 
his work, with a fair prospect of success; “buL” he 
said, “it will hang on for a long time. The Holland 
government are not inclined to listen to reason ; in fact 
I may say, you must all cultivate patience, for the affair 
may be one of years.” 

In a postscript he added : 

“ Tell Mademoiselle Ang^le that my box of flowers 
is sent as a sample of the bouquets which will be 
thrown at her feet on the evening of her d4hut at the 
theatre.” 

“ What does he mean by all that gabble about bou- 
quets and theatres?” grumbled Monsieur S^ndchal. 
“ Does he wish to make a Merry Andrew of my 
daughter ? Throw his letter and foolish flowers into 
the fire ! ” 

Angele escaped from the room with her bouquet, and 
presently her mother followed her. 

“ Cultivate patience, indeed ! ” she cried. “ Monsieur 
La Genevraie finds it easy enough to talk, but we have 
5 


82 


angele’s fortune. 


no time to wait. Your father has lost his situation, we 
are living on our capital, and soon we shall have noth- 
ing left but our eyes to weep with ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Angele, as she plunged her bouquet 
into a large vase of fresh water, “if my father yrere 
not so prejudiced against the theatre ! ” 

“What do you mean?” cried Madame S^n^chal. 
Have you the same idea that I have ? You might make 
enormous sums of money; and then, too, almost all 
actresses end by a brilliant marriage — and you are 
lovely enough for a prince ! ” 

The good lady had no sooner gotten rid of one chi- 
mera than she was ready to mount another, and go off 
at full gallop. Her vivid imagination depicted Angele 
on the stage — the audience wildly applauding — a Rus- 
sian prince offering her his hand. 

Her daughter stopped her at this precise point by 
saying— 

“ I can do nothing unless I go to Paris, and to that 
my father would never consent.” 

“ Your father never could make up his mind to any- 
thing, my dear ; you must go without saying one word 
to him ! ” 

“ Deceive him ! ” cried Angele, aghast. “ Oh, no ! I 
cannot do that, it would be very wrong.” But to the 
good lady, nothing was wrong that gratified her 
daughter. 

“ Wrong ! ” she cried. “ How would it be wrong ? 
Have you, or have you not, talent of a superior order? 


angele’s fortune. 


83 


If you have, it is we who are doing wrong not to draw 
some benefit from it. I doubt if your father would 
complain if he should find a delicious supper laid, every 
night when you came from the theatre. If you go on 
the stage, it is for his benefit as well as for your own. 
I will take all the blame on myself. You can go in a 
week, and stay with a friend of mine, whose husband 
keeps a little boarding-house on La Rue Jacob. They 
are honest people, and will take good care of you, 
until Monsieur La Genevrai^ introduces you to some 
manager.” 

“But,” said AngMe, “this will take a great deal of 
money.” 

“ To be sure ! but there must be a good deal in your 
little safe.” 

Ang^e made no further objection, the temptation 
was too strong. If she were successful, her family 
would be comfortable once more, and this thought 
removed her last scruples. It was decided that she 
should make all her preparations in secret. She would 
take with her only a valise, and her mother would send 
a trunk after her. 

When she was alone in her room, AngMe locked the 
door and opened her wardrobe, where, under a pile of 
linen, lay her savings bank. It was one of those earth- 
en barrels, such as are given to children, with a slit 
toward the top on one side. Ang^le held it in her hand 
for a moment, and then with one sharp blow, broke it, 
and its contents all fell upon the floor. A ray of 


84 


angele’s fortune. 


sunshine glanced through the window, and fell on the 
scattered gold and silver pieces, whose various effigies 
were so many episodes in the girl’s last nine years. 
That great copper sou covered with verdigris, was the 
first sacrifice she made — it was a cake laid on the 
shrine — a cake relinquished as the first step toward 
seeing Paris. 

That pale gold Louis, had been given to her on the 
day of her first communion, and she had held it long 
hours between her fingers, before she could make up her 
mind to drop it into that gap. And that other, dated 
from a certain autumnal evening, when her father, 
having sold as it stood, all his vintage to the wine 
merchant, tossed it to AngMe and bade her buy pins 
with it. How lovely it was that night, and what a 
merry dance they had ! Each piece held a memory, 
each impression recalled some scene of her childhood 
or youth, and all seemed to cry out to the girl : 

“ Keep us ! Keep us ! Don’t scatter us about the 
world — we belong to the calm, pure days of your 
youth ! ” 

But the bouquet on the table, with its dainty odors, 
the spring breeze that came in through the open win- 
dow, all murmured, “ Paris ! Paris ! ” 

Ang^le piled up her money and counted it slowly. 
There were nearly eight hundred francs, which seemed 
to her an inexhaustible treasure. 

From this time, she thought of little, save of leaving 
home. She was agitated and nervous. She had 


angele’s fortune. 


85 


sudden little gushes of affection for her father, and 
one night, after she had kissed him warmly, Joseph saw 
that her eyes were full of tears. 

“ Your daughter does not seem quite like herself,” 
the young man said to the old clerk, when Ang^le had 
left the room. 

“ Do you think so ? ” answered S^ndchal, with a 
laugh. The old gentleman had determined that Tous- 
saint should open his heart that night. “ It seems to 
me that you are none too gay, either. Confide in me, 
Day boy ; I am a safe adviser.” 

“I have nothing to confide,” said the young man, 
with a blush. “ My only trouble is, that I am weary of 
having no especial aim in life — ” 

“Nonsense!” interrupted old Sdn^chal. “You 
must marry.” 

“ Marry I No, no, my dear sir. I am not the man 
to take a woman, as one plucks an apple from a tree in 
passing under it. I would like to choose a little ; and 
who can assure me that such a woman, as I would 
marry, would accept a fellow like myself, who has so 
little to offer.” 

“ I dare say, she would be a difficult person to suit. 
But have you selected this woman — is she somewhere 
now in existence ? ” 

“Yes, she is in existence — certainly!” cried Joseph, 
after a brief struggle with himself; “but I shall never 
presume to ask her if she will have me.” 

“ She must be a princess. But you are foolish, man I 
Take heart of grace, and see what she says — ” 


86 


angele’s fortune. 


“No; for were she to laugh at me, I should be 
mortally wounded.” 

“ Laugh at you ! ” exclaimed S^ndchal, quite offended, 
“ do you think that Angele — ” 

“Do you know, then?” exclaimed Joseph, crimson- 
ing to the roots of his hair. “Ah! Monsieur S^ndchal, 
I swear to you, that I have not uttered one word to 
her—” 

“ I know that very well, m}^ boy, and that is all the 
fault I have to find with you. Young girls, you know, 
like fellows with some audacity, and if I were you, I 
would speak.” 

“ Then you authorize me to do so ? ” stammered 
Joseph. 

“ I believe that you are a brave fellow, and that my 
daughter is no fool! Try your luck as soon as you 
please. To-morrow, my wife will be at her sisters-in- 
law, and we alone. I will go out and leave you with 
Angele, and you can speak to her frankly.” 

“To-morrow night!” cried Joseph, a cold chill 
running over him. “ Do you not think it would be wiser 
to wait a while ? Just think, if she were to say no ! ” 

“ She will say yes, coward ! A man like myself is 
not easily deceived, and I have watched her for a week. 
Good-night, my boy, and remember what you are to do 
to-morrow ! ” 

The next evening, when he left the office, Joseph 
walked up and down the path, under the trees, for a 
couple of hours, before he could make up his mind 


angele’s foktune. 


87 


what he should say to AngMe ; but the words buzzed 
through his head like water rushing over a mill-dam, 
and each phrase he arranged, seemed to him perfectly 
idiotic. Becoming desperate at last, he determined to 
trust to the inspiration of the moment. He had no 
time to lose, for the clock was striking, and he knew 
that supper would be on the table. 

“ How pale you are,’’ said S^n^chal, meeting him 
in the corridor. “ Keep up a good heart, comrade. 
AngHe has not yet come in ; but it is eight o’clock, and 
she will be here presently. She went out an hour ago, 
after kissing and hugging me until I was nearly suf- 
focated. She behaved a little queerly, and I am 
convinced that it is on your account. But what can 
keep her so long?” 

He moved about the room restlessly, while Joseph 
sat by the stove. From his chair he could see through 
the window, whose curtains had not been dropped, a 
patch of sky, where the stars were slowly appearing, one 
by one, as the night grew darker. The. voices of 
children at play, came to him from a distance, and also 
the rumble of a departing train. 

“ The wind is west,” said Monsieur S^n^chal, as he 
lighted the lamp, “ for we hear the whistle of the loco- 
motive. I wonder if Ang^le means to starve us.” 

“lam not hungry,” answered Joseph, who found a 
certain pleasure in this agony of waiting. 

“But I am ! ” muttered the old clerk. “ Perfectly 
famished, indeed. Here she comes ! ” 


88 


angele’s foktune. 


The door opened, and Madame S^n^chal entered, 
very much agitated and considerably out of breath. 

“ Where is AngMe ! ” cried her father. 

“ She will not be here to-night. She, in fact, will be 
away for several days,” answered the lady, in a voice 
that was far from steady. 

“ What on earth do you mean ? ” exclaimed S^n^chal. 

“ I mean — But here is a letter which will explain.” 

Joseph held his breath, while S^n^chal snatched from 
his wife’s hands the letter she extended, and read the 
following : 

“ Dear little father, forgive me ! I am going to 
Paris. I am too big, to be a burthen on you any longer, 
and I mean to go on the stage. It will be a good thing 
for us all; and I am told that I shall be a success. 
When I have made money, I shall come back to you, 
and we three will live happily together. And in the 
meantime, I implore you not to think hardly of your 
little girl, who loves you dearly, in spite of her 
wilfulness and disobedience.” 

“ Ah ! child ! child ! ” said her father, in a hoarse, 
unnatural voice. He swayed to and fro, clutched the 
air, and fell an inert mass on the floor. 

“ Heavenly Father ! ” cried Madame S^ndchal, rush- 
ing toward her husband. “ It is apoplexy ! Run, 
Joseph, run for the doctor, please ! ” 


ang:^le’s foetune. 


89 


CHAPTER V. 

A PAEISIAN PHILOSOPHER. 

“ T)ARIS ! Paris I ’’ The conductors threw open the 
X doors of the train; the sharp whistles of the 
locomotive echoed through the vaulted station ; the 
travellers rushed to the entrances, and Ang^le Sendchal 
was nearly carried off her feet and into the waiting- 
room. She had not closed her eyes all night, and 
now seated herself in the most remote corner of 
that dreary room, lighted by the cold, grey dawn. 
Her companions in the train, were busily getting 
their thousand and one packages together — the women, 
wrapped in shapeless waterproofs, looking haggard and 
cold from want of sleep and fatigue. Children were 
crying, and the scene was forlorn enough, but the girl 
felt its full sharpness, only when she saw a father hur- 
rying into the station, and embrace his young children, 
whom he had come to meet. 

Angele had no one to greet her. She was utterly 
alone in this great town ; but that hope, which, in youth, 
walks always a little before us, like our shadows in 
the morning sunlight, now quickly came to comfort her 
and gave a new direction to her thoughts. Had she 
not at last reached the Paris of her dreams ? Did she 
not hear the roar of the streets and the turmoil of its 
seething life ? 


90 


angele’s fortune. 


When she left the station it was six o’clock, and the 
streets were animated with life. Looking out of the 
carriage window, AngMe examined curiously the long 
rows of high buildings, shining in the morning sun. 
The young foliage of the trees on the Boulevards were 
tossing in the breeze. Wagons, laden with vegetables, 
stood around the markets, and filled the air with their 
fresh country smell. At the newspaper stalls, the pro- 
prietors were busily folding up the damp journals, and 
the sidewalks were filled with workwomen and shop 
girls, who were hurrying to their duties with that alert, 
graceful step which is a distinguishing characteristic of 
the Parisian grisette. When her carriage rolled over 
the bridges, AngMe uttered an involuntary exclamation 
of delight at the sight of the Seine, and its succession of 
bridges, the old trees hanging over the water, the boats 
moored to the arches, and massive buildings, distant 
spires and towers. 

The young girl had not recovered from her first 
ecstasy of delight, when the carriage drew up before 
the furnished lodgings which were kept by her mother’s 
friends. Angele sent in her name and a letter from 
her mother. She expected the cordial, but inquisi- 
tive, reception of country people, but she was quickly 
undeceived, for the mistress of the house simply 
spoke to her politely, confided her to the care of a 
servant, and returned to her own affairs. A room was 
given to her nearly at the top of the house — a dreary 
room whose windows opened on a court-yard as deep, 
dark and narrow as a well. 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


91 


She had determined to call on La Genevraie without 
delay, but nature was stronger than her will, for she 
fell asleep at once and slept soundly until four o’clock. 
It was too late, of course, for her to pay the visit that 
day, so she occupied herself in unpacking her trunk. 
When that was done, she ordered up a simple dinner, 
which she ate with rather a heavy heart. As the twi- 
light came on, the Angelus rang from the tower of 
Saint-Germain-des-Pr^s, and the sound carried the girl’s 
thoughts back to her home in the la Rue des Savonnaires. 
She saw her father’s melancholy face, and Joseph’s 
astonished eyes, and her own filled with tears ; but a 
certain liveliness, which was one of her characteristics, 
and the fact that her impressions were never very deep, 
or very lasting, softened her remorse. 

“ Mamma is very clever,” she said, half aloud, “and 
she will make things smooth. Then, too, they will take 
a different view of my absence when they hear of my 
success.” And she began once more to think of the 
money she should send home — of what she must do 
the next day — of the Paris where Ren4 des Armoises 
lived and worked, perhaps within a stone throw of 
where she now was — and by degrees her courage and 
buoyancy came back. She undressed, said her prayers, 
locked her door, and slept soundly until morning, when 
she was awakened by the noises in the street, above all 
of which, came the piercing cry of the umbrella vendor, 
who flourishes and is most gay when the weather is bad. 
And in fact the day was gray enough — a fine, persist- 
ent rain was falling. 


92 


ang^le’s fortune. 


AngMe dressed slowly, ate a piece of chocolate with 
a roll that was left from her dinner the day before, and 
going down stairs, asked to be directed to the street 
where La Genevraie resided. He lived not far from 
La Rue Jacob — Cour de Rohan — in one of the most 
picturesque corners of old Paris, where one might sup- 
pose one’s self to be in some old provincial town. All is 
profoundly still in these places, the roar of carriages is 
heard afar off, but one is rarely seen in these winding 
streets, where the houses are mostly used as libraries 
or bookbinding establishments, an industry that is a 
very noiseless one. 

The irregular roofs stand out against the blue sky 
with something of the look of those old people who 
astonish the present generation with the dress and 
manners of the previous century. The lower windows 
are defended by heavy iron bars, but higher up, scarlet 
geraniums blaze in all their luxuriance of bloom, while 
clothes are hung to dry on the roofs. The country quiet 
seems to have developed and encouraged country habits. 
The bookbinder on the lower floor has improvised a 
screen for his windows by planting vines between the 
bricks of the public way. The bric-a-brac man opposite, 
displays his odd collection of Parisian knick-knacks on 
the grass-grown pavement. Facing La Rue de Sardenet 
was a large double gate of rusty iron. Within the court- 
yard she saw an old well on one side, and on the other, 
a lilac tree, stunted and scantily clothed with leaves. It 
was here that La Genevraie resided. Ang^le could not 


angele’s fortune. 


93 


at first credit this. She had pictured this Parisian to 
herself — with his lordly airs and his excessive refine- 
ment — as living in some superb h6tel in the most stately 
portion of the city. She ascended the dark stairs and 
stopped before a door. There was no bell, but on a 
nail hung a slate, with the following most prudent 
direction. 

“ Knock three times, and then call your name three 
times.” 

The girl was more and more amazed. What was 
the meaning of this excessive caution ? She did pre- 
cisely this, however, and in a few moments the key 
turned, the door opened, and La Genevraie, wrapped 
in an ample dressing gown, stood before her. 

“ You have come then, my beauty ! ” he exclaimed, 
in his cheery fashion. “ Come in ! ” 

He conducted Angdle through an ante-room piled 
with books, and took her into a disordered sleeping 
room. Handsome pieces of furniture, rare china, and 
fantastic arms, were cheek by jowl with the commonest 
things. A desk was piled high with volumes, papers 
and proofs from the publishers. La Genevraie’s heavy 
eyes looked as if he had just risen. 

“ Have you just come to Paris ? ” he said, as he 
handed her a chair ; ‘‘ and how are all the good people 
at home ? ” 

For a few moments the conversation was limited to 
these common-places. Angele expected him to ask her 
what she intended to do, but La Genevraie was silent. 


94 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


To tell the truth, he had totally forgotten the advice he 
had given her. On leaving Bay, he had conscientiously 
expended the three thousand francs raised by the Morel 
heirs, in pushing their claims. But, when this money 
was gone, and he had made no advances in setting 
aside the obstacles which stood in his way, Gaspard, 
not being a man to fight long against the same wind- 
mill, dismissed the whole subject from his mind. Some 
of his friends had started a daily paper, and into this 
enterprise he now threw himself, heart and soul. Bay 
— the Morel claim — the S^n^chal family — were now 
mere shadows, or rather, half effaced drawings. 

A dead silence ensued, and the poor little girl 
heard the sad sound of the rain dash against the 
windows. 

“ Do you mean to stay here long ? ” asked La Gene- 
vraie. 

“ Why, of course I do,” she answered, astonished at 
the question. “ I came to study for the stage, as you 
advised. I rely on your support, and am ready to 
appear at any theatre you choose to designate.” 

“ The deuce you are ! ” he muttered, in some confu- 
sion. “ But, my dear child, you are going too fast ; it 
is not so easy as you suppose to enter a theatrical com- 
pany. In the first place, are you perfectly sure that 
you have the requisite talent ? ” 

“ But it was you,” she exclaimed, in great trouble, 
“ it was you who encouraged me, and told me I was a 
real artist.” 


angele’s fortune. 


95 


“ Of course I did, and I only did justice to your natural 
gifts. You have a very pretty talent for the provinces, 
but Paris, you know, my child, is a different matter. 
Clever people are as thick here as clouds of flies ! You 
have a good voice and a good figure, and these are all 
precious things and worth gold, if you know how to use 
them. But merely to tread the boards, hold your arms 
and your head, and throw out your voice, are quite 
other things, and need practice. Many persons have 
spent their youth in trying to acquire just this, and 
have utterly failed. In a word, nature is not enough, 
and art must come forward with her alphabet and 
grammar ! ” He looked at the girl as he spoke, and 
saw that her eyes were full of tears. These tears, and 
the pretty lips set firmly together to keep back her 
sobs, made an impression on this tough Bohemian, and 
touched the heart which he believed to have grown as 
tough as a rhinoceros’ hide. He looked back at his far 
away youth, recalled the bitterness of his first dis- 
appointment, and laid his hand on Angele’s shoulder 
with affectionate sympathy. 

“ You must not be discouraged, little one,” he said. 
“Do you feel that you have strength enough to 
study?” 

“ Yes, sir,” she said, in a trembling voice, “ I have 
strength enough, to do anything which would insure 
success, only tell me what to do.” 

“ Good ! We will make an artist of you yet I 
Give me your address. To-morrow I will take you to 


96 


angele’s foktune. 


call upon a Professor of elocution, who will give you 
some lessons. He knows his business well, and I will 
recommend you especially.” 

“But,” said Ang^le, timidly, “how long will this 
apprenticeship last ? ” 

“ How like a woman ! ” he answered, shrugging his 
shoulders; “they expect to realize their visions the 
morning after they have dreamed them ! They do not 
know the meaning of the word patience ! ” 

“ Ah ! there you are mistaken,” murmured the girl, 
smiling through her tears; “my only trouble is, that I 
have not money enough to live while I am studying.” 

He shook his thick, bushy locks: “Too bad! too 
bad 1 ” he muttered. “ That perpetual and degrading 
question of money always interferes with the best laid 
plans I When a woman has beauty like yours, my 
dear, she need despair of nothing.” 

After many compliments of this nature, he bowed 
her out, and the next day came in a carriage, at noon, 
to take her to the elocutionist. Saint Felix, whose 
school, in the Boulevard Montparnasse, was known 
under the name of the Salle Corneille. 

Saint Felix was a man of sixty, closely shaved, with 
large, tragic eyes, and long grey curls hanging over his 
shoulders. He spoke with nervous volubility, and with 
an immense amount of gesticulation. 

“ My dear fellow,” cried La Genevraie, as he entered, 
“ I bring you a new Rachel — a rough diamond — which 
I confide to you ! When you have cut it, you will find 


angele’s foktune. 


97 


— and the world will find — that it has plenty of fire — 
fire which will pale all the candles in the Conserva- 
toire ! ” 

He talked with an enthusiasm which was a strange 
contrast to his reticence and indifference of the night 
before. It was decided at last that AngHe should 
receive a course of instruction gratuitously, from Saint 
Felix, who would be paid by puffs in the journal edited 
by La Genevraie. 

“Now you are started,” said this gentleman to An- 
gele, “but you must go to the theatre constantly to 
study all the dramatic machinery. Here are tickets 
for the Fran^ais. Take the mistress of your Hotel 
with you, which will conciliate her. Au revoir, my 
beauty ! ” 

He left her at the Hotel after kissing her hand, and 
then walked down the street in his lofty, stately fash- 
ion, with his hat a little on one side, and his coat but- 
toned tightly around his waist. 

Angele went to the theatre, and was perfectly en- 
chanted. Alfred de Musset’s words charmed her ears 
and her mind. She watched the actresses when they 
were called before the curtain, and saw them bow low 
with smiling faces. Her heart thrilled with longing, 
and hope reigned triumphant once more. The next 
day she hastened with eager steps to the school, and 
commenced her new life. Three times each week, 
fifteen young girls and as many youths assembled in 
the Salle Corneille to take their lessons of Saint Felix. 

6 


98 


angele’s foktune. 


1 


The men were clerks and shopkeepers, who were theatre 
mad, and who had relinquished the counter for the 
deceptive shadows of dramatic fame. The women 
were grisettes, and Russian and Hungarian adventu- 
resses. 

These Bohemians made a singular impression on 
AngMe. The young men affected a certain skepti- 
cism, and at the same time were credulous to a degree. 
The women were bold and vain, jealous and excitable. 
AngHe, without being a prude, was modest and refined, 
and had brought from her country home, certain ideas 
of propriety which were constantly shocked and 
offended by what she saw and heard. By degrees she 
became accustomed to the novel atmosphere, and ceased 
to find it disagreeable. 

Her companions gave her lessons in economy by 
taking her to a CrSmerie^ where she could dine for 
twenty sous. She knew the women who let evening 
' dresses, she even became familiar with that place 
which provincials regard with such horror, the Mont- 
de-Pidte. Some of the young men tried to make 
love to her, but she coldly thrust them aside. The 
recollection of Ren^ des Armoises rendered her deaf 
to such sighs as these. She often thought of her poet, 
and looked for his name in the advertisements of new 
books. She said to herself : 

“Where is he? When shall I see him again?” and 
worked on with energy that she might become more 
worthy of him. Old Saint Felix, who felt a tender 


angele’s fortune. 


99 


admiration for Angela’s beauty, lavished every care and 
attention upon her. She was making rapid progress. La 
Genevraie occasionally sent her tickets for the Fran^ais 
or the Odeon, and this was her only amusement. 

She wrote every week to her mother, from whom she 
hid her disappointment, and tried to write gayly. She 
had received one long letter from Madame Sdn^chal, in 
which allusion was made to her father’s being indis- 
posed. After this long letter a brief note came each 
week, and finally one evening, when she came in from 
the theatre, she found a telegram saying that her father 
was barely alive. She turned very pale ; her first im- 
pulse was to rush to the Station, but she knew that the 
last train had gone, and epent the night in tears and 
self-reproach. She accused herself of being the cause 
of her father’s death, who could not endure the idea of 
her being an actress; perhaps, she thought, with a 
shudder, he was dying at that very moment. 

In the morning, while she was making her prepara- 
tion for departure, the door was thrown open, and in 
came Madame S^n^chal, rounder than ever. 

“ My poor darling ! ” she murmured, as she pressed 
Angele to her ample bosom. 

The girl tore herself away. 

“ Is he dead ? ” she gasped, as she saw her mother’s 
black garments. 

Madame Sen^chal pulled out her handkerchief. 

“Dead!” exclaimed the young girl, bursting into 
passionate tears and sobs. 


100 


angele’s fortune. 


There was a long silence, then Madame Sdndchal 
said: 

“ Forgive me, dear, for not having told you in time, 
but he would not have known you ; he was unconscious 
from the time he was first taken until he died. I 
wished to spare you a needless journey.” Angele inter- 
rupted her by a reproachful look. 

“ I killed him ! I know it ! I feel it ! ” she cried. 
“ Poor, dear father, how good he was ! Ah, mamma, 
how could you be so cruel ! why did you not let me 
kiss him ? I never can forgive you ! ” 

“ No, my dearest,” answered her mother, who was 
by no means scrupulous in her anxiety to console her 
daughter, “ you are entirely mistaken. It was not you, 
who killed your father, it was that wretched Boblique, 
and then the warm weather on top of that, broke him 
down completely — his strength — and he was like a 
lamp whose oil is exhausted.” 

“ And I was not there ! ” repeated Angele, with 
renewed sobs. 

The rest of the day was spent in talking of the dead 
father and husband, but when the girl was calmer, her 
mother took her hands, and looking at her admiringly, 
said: 

“ And what are you doing ? When shall you make 
your debut ? ” 

AngMe shook her head, saying she could not tell. 

“ That scamp, La Genevraie, has disappointed us all,” 
exclaimed the good lady, bitterly. “ The fortune, I 


angele’s fortune. 


101 


fear, will never be heard of, and now he is turning a 
cold shoulder on you ; but I will stir him up a little, 
now that I am on the spot, for I have come here to 
live ! ” 

She then went on to say, that she had rented her 
house to a neighbor, and had sold her surplus furniture, 
while the rest was to be sent to her by the railroad. 
She wished to find a small apartment as soon as possi- 
ble, and this she succeeded in doing, on the fourth floor 
in a street which, as she told Angele, was most con- 
veniently near her Theatre, and “ should you take an 
engagement at the Od^on, you won’t be ten steps from 
your Theatre.” 

The furniture arrived, they settled themselves in 
their new home, and Angele applied herself with new 
energy to her dramatic studies. Her mother always 
accompanied her to the Salle Corneille, and could not 
restrain her exclamations of admiration when Angele 
recited a verse. The good woman had rather the air 
of compassionating the other girls, who could not reach 
her standard ; a little more, and she would have gone 
the length of promising them her protection and 
patronage, when AngMe made her debut. 

One October morning, when Mademoiselle S^n^chal 
was rehearsing a scene from Berenice, the rustling of a 
silk dress was heard in the ante-room. A lady of un- 
certain age came in with a rush. Saint Felix lifted his 
warning finger with a “ hush 1 ” but he did not succeed 
in his attempt to impose silence. 


102 


angele’s fortune. 


“ It is wonderful ! ” cried the lady, “ simply wonder- 
ful! The girl must come to my Thursdays, she 
must have a part in my play. Yes, my dear,” she con- 
tinued, addressing AngMe eagerly, “you play like an 
angel, and I intend to lecture La Genevraie, for not 
having brought you to my house. There you would 
meet Managers who would appreciate your talents, and 
who would assist you. I shall expect you next Thurs- 
day, without fail. Bring her to me. Saint Felix, or we 
shall quarrel.” 

“ That is Madame de Busserolles,” said Saint Felix, 
when the lady had departed. “ She receives artists, 
literary people, and a good sprinkling of fashionables 
beside. It is quite a distinction to be invited to her 
house, let me tell you ! ” 

Madame de Busserolles was insane in regard to the 
Theatre. She even wrote plays, and all the Theatres of 
Paris were besieged with her manuscripts, which, how- 
ever, slumbered quietly in their envelopes. Tired of 
these useless efforts, she had her comedies played by 
young artists whom she picked up in the various schools 
of declamation. She paid them with bad dinners and 
thanks. 

She was a little over fifty, and had preserved of all 
her youthful charms, only her blonde curls — which fell, 
like those of an English woman, each side of her face 
— and a pair of beautiful blue eyes. 

It was said that she had been a great belle in her 
youth, and some people affirmed, with a wicked laugh. 


angele’s fortune. 


103 


that she had always adored La Genevraie, who had 
been for years a faithful habitu^ of her salon. If in 
Paris, he never missed a Thursday, and amused himself 
with paying this ripe beauty, the most preposterous 
compliments — compliments which made little Monsieur 
Busserolles grind his teeth with rage. This little man 
adored his wife, who tyrannized over him and ruled 
him with a rod of iron. It was he who managed the 
household and directed the servants. He found fault 
with his better half, only on one point, and that was, 
when she kept some of her guests to dinner, and finally, 
to keep him in good humor, it had been agreed between 
herself and her friends, that each guest should bring some 
dish. Most of these Thursday guests, took this arrange- 
ment in good part, so that the dinner on that day was 
like a picnic — the most extraordinary dishes, washed 
down by some very poor wine, raised by Busserolles on 
his own estate. 

Occasionally La Genevraie promised to bring them a 
Manager who would bring out Madame Busserolles’ 
comedy. This mythical Manager was the bane of Bus- 
serolles’ existence ; he was called on in this way for 
extra dishes and delicacies, at least once in every ten 
days, but the Manager had not yet made his appear- 
ance. The expectant host would wait until half-past 
seven, and then creep into the dining-room, and remove 
half the- cake, or replace it with some which, being 
stale, he had bought at half price. It was in this salon 
— of an old hotel in the Quai Bourbon — that AngMe 


104 


angele’s fortune. 


had her first experience in life as an artist. When 
Saint Felix and La Genevraie presented her to Madame 
de Busserolles the sal6n was full. The habitues were 
mostly old and decayed gentlemen — pianists struggling 
for fame — artists without engagements — and several 
women who, no longer young, were inspired with aspira- 
tions for intellectual honors. 

Amid these withered fruits and faded flowers, the 
only suggestion of youth and beauty, was a niece of the 
master of the house, Marthe de Boissimoii, the daugh- 
ter of a high functionary in the imperial mansion. 
Fair and plump, the young girl was very charming, 
and her aunt regarded her, and justly, as the great 
attraction of the house. 

Ang^le, who had only looked, as it were, through a 
key hole, at the good society of her little town, was 
highly pleased at seeing herself received, into what she 
believed to be the ^lite of the Parisian world. Her 
hand was at last on the door, which opened on the 
enchanted garden of her dreams. 

In a dazed sort of state she took her seat. Before 
she had regained her composure Madame de Busserolles 
entreated her to recite some verses. Ang^le rose and 
nervously fanned herself. 

“ Don’t be troubled, my child,” murmured La Gene- 
vraie ; “ give us something that will stir the blood of 
these old fossils.” 

The girl stood near the chimney waiting for silence 
in the sal6n. Never were her eyes so blue, and her lips 


angele's fortune. 


105 


so red. She began to recite her favorite poem — that 
of Ren^ des Armoises — with which she had charmed 
the Morel heirs. 

Her voice became firmer as she went on, and she 
soon felt herself rise to the occasion. When she fin- 
ished, the room rang with applause, and AngHe drop- 
ped her eyes to conceal the triumph she felt. When 
she lifted them again she saw Ren4 des Armoises before 
her, handsome, bold and gay, like a young Greek god. 

“ Upon my word ! ” he cried, “ this is, indeed, a 
surprise.” His eyes thanked Ang^le. He extended 
his hand to her as he said : 

“I never liked my verses half so well; you have 
transfigured them ! ” 


106 


angele’s fortune. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A NEW WAY OF ENTERTAINING. 

OME weeks later, one Thursday, Madame de Bus- 



O serolles, half lying on her sofa, received the 
faithful. It was growing dark, and the room was 
lighted only by the very small fire in the vast chimney. 
The master of the house was dimly discerned in one 
corner, while the flickering flames, occasionally fell on 
the gold-bowed spectacles of a solemn personage, wear- 
ing a black wig and a decoration on his breast. 

“Really, my dear Jolivart,’* said Madame de Bus- 
serolles, in a plaintive voice, “ the ways of the Theatres 
are past finding out. I have a drama at the Oddon and 
a comedy at the Fran^ais, and I cannot get either of 
them read. You really ought to speak to the manager. 
My drama would be extremely taking, I am sure, and 
if you stay and dine with us to-night, you will have an 
opportunity of judging, for Mademoiselle S^ndchal, the 
artist of the future, will recite a portion of it with 
Saint Felix. I do not know what sort of a dinner we 
have. Tancrede?” 

When Madame de Busserolles wished to invite any 
one, she always uttered her husband’s name in a certain 
entreating tone, which quickly brought him to her side. 
This evening, however, he was utterly deaf to her voice. 


angele’s fortune. 107 

The dinner was very scanty ; three guests were already 
asked ; and the last time he had been to his cellar, the 
poor little man was quite dismayed to discover that his 
wine was running low. In vain, therefore, did the lady 
call Tancr^de. TancrMe gave no signs of life. 

“We have a poor dinner — I see that,” sighed the 
mistress of the house, “ and you run the risk of starving 
to death, unless,” she added, with a smile, “ you should 
feel inclined to add a dish. Go and take counsel with 
Clairette. She will tell you what to do.” 

Monsieur Jolivart was quite able to give some points 
to Tancr^de on the matter of economy. He hesitated 
a moment, and then, thinking probably that a refusal 
would look very badly, he rose and walked with con- 
siderable dignity to the kitchen, to confer with the 
cook, who at once suggested a chicken. Jolivart gave 
her the money, and, quite elated by his liberality, 
stalked back, with the air of a Roman Senator, to the 
sal6n. 

Fifteen minutes later. Saint Felix entered the house, 
and, knowing its ways, went to the kitchen, to inquire 
about the dinner and what addition he had best make. 
Clairette exhibited Monsieur Jolivart’s tiny chicken. 

“ That’s a mere pigeon,” cried Saint Felix, contem- 
plating it. Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck him. “ Tell 
me,” he said, “where you bought this rack of bones, 
and I will go and exchange it for a big capon.” 

Clairette thought it an excellent plan, and Saint 
Felix, as active as a squirrel, bounded down the stairs, 
to return in ten minutes with a superb capon. 


108 


angele’s fortune. 


“ What the deuce have you got there ? ” said a full 
rich voice, and, turning round. Saint Felix perceived 
La Genevraie, draped in his ample cloak. 

“Provisions, I presume,” continued the journalist, 
whose aristocratic instincts revolted against Madame de 
Busserolle’s picnics. 

“ Hush ! ” answered the other. “ It is a capon, and I 
trust you will eat some of it.” 

“ Not I ! This house disgusts me ! I will content 
myself with looking at you, and when I am tired of 
that I will go and sup at Brabant’s. I prefer that to 
this miserly arrangement.” 

After Saint Felix had confided the capon to Clairette’s 
hands, the two men entered the sal6n, where they were 
soon joined by Madame de Busserolles and the other 
two guests, Angele and Ren^ des Armoises. Since their 
first meeting in this same sal6n, the two young people 
had seen each other several times. Madame des Ar- 
moises, who had come to Paris to join her son, and who 
was a cousin of the Busserolles, was often seen at these 
reunions, for her heart was set on her son marrying 
Tancr^de’s niece, the pretty Marthe de Boissimon. 

Des Armoises found little to attract him to the sal6n, 
which he irreverently called a store-room for dried 
fruit, but now that Angele was to be met there, the 
place assumed a new aspect. 

The oddity of their meeting pleased the poet. 
Mademoiselle S^ndchal’s beauty, too, had gained a new 
element since her arrival in Paris — an indefinable 


angele’s fortune. 


109 


attraction. Rent’s restless, inquisitive, passionate 
nature delighted in sounding the depths of this fresh 
young heart, which he soon learned was an altar where 
burned perpetual incense in his honor. 

He was in great spirits this evening, for his first 
book of poems had just appeared and elicited warm 
praise from the critics. His face was bright with suc- 
cess as he approached the young girl, just as dinner 
was announced. 

They passed into the chilly dining-room. La Gene- 
vraie declined a seat at the table and stood by the 
stove, watching the festive scene with a very sarcastic 
expression. 

Ren^ and AngMe chatted gaily, not knowing what 
they ate. Claire tte brought in the capon as a third 
course. It was deliciously brown and tempting. 

“ This will never do,” said the lady of the house to 
Jolivart. “ I never allow such follies.” 

“ It has swelled in cooking,” replied the gentleman, 
somewhat amazed at the proportions assumed by his 
chicken. 

Saint Felix laughed in his sleeve, and when the capon 
was placed before him, he helped himself freely. 

“You are fond of capon. Saint Felix?” asked the 
hostess, gently. 

“ Extravagantly ! ” he answered, taking a generous 
slice of the breast, at which Tancr^de was very angry. 
His annoyance was so great that La Genevraie asked 
for a glass, and at once proceeded to aid Saint Felix in 


no 


angele’s fortune. 


his mischievous plans, by emptying the bottle, which 
Monsieur de Busserolles watched out of the corner of 
his eye. 

“I do wish. La Genevraie, that you would come to 
the table, and eat your dinner in a civilized fashion,” 
muttered the host. 

“By the way,” exclaimed Madame de Busserolles, 
who felt the thunder in the air, “which is the dish 
Saint Felix sent ? ” 

“ My dish? ” said that gentleman, boldly. “ Oh, my 
dish is a capon.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Jolivart, in a state of towering 
indignation, “ I brought that chicken myself.” 

“Yes, you brought a chicken,” answered Saint Felix ; 
“but it was not a capon, and I took it back to the 
stall.” And he told of the exchange. 

The host and hostess were quite shocked. Jolivart 
was scarlet with rage, and reproached Saint Felix, who 
pretended to be very penitent. Angele and Ren4 
were absolutely convulsed, while La Genevraie, leaning 
against the mantel, with his eye-glass on his eye, smiled 
with a most diabolical expression. He finally sent for 
his cloak, and as he threw it over his shoulders, he said : 

“ Poor Busserolles ! As I understand the matter, you 
have been cheated out of one chicken. I am going to 
supper now, and propose to drink the health of each of 
you in succession; and to-night I shall offer up a 
prayer, that in this world and the next, you shall have 
as many capons and as many chickens as you wish.” 


angele’s fortune. Ill 

Saint Felix and Jolivart continued to look at each 
other like two gamecocks. Tancrede profited by the 
general disturbance, to place two dishes, intended for 
dessert, back on the buffet. The hostess, annoyed at a 
joke, which threatened to annihilate all her theatrical 
hopes, looked at Ren^ and AngMe, who were laugh- 
ing, as only young people can laugh. 

“ Really,” said the lady of the house, frowning, “ I 
fail to see what there is, so excessively amusing.” 

Ang^le struggled to regain her composure. She was 
growing nervous, and her laughter, like silver bells, 
rang through the room. Madame de Busserolles lost 
her temper entirely. 

“ Upon my word,” she said, “ I begin to believe that 
one had best think twice, before opening one’s doors to 
strangers ! ” 

The laugh froze on Angle’s lips. Her lips turned 
deadly pale, while the color suffused her brow. At 
that moment, the party rose from the table. Instead 
of entering the sal6n, however, the young girl went on 
into the ante-room. Madame de Busserolles felt she had 
gone too far, for if Mademoiselle S4n4chal left, there 
could be no recitation of any portion of her play, that 
night. 

“ What is the matter with the child ? ” she cried, in 
a gentler voice. “ Please, Ren^, go and find out what 
has gone wrong and bring her in here.” 

Ren4 found Ang^le wrapping herself in her cloak. 

“ Are you going ? ” he exclaimed. 


112 


angele’s fortune. 


“ Certainly I am ! I cannot stay in a house where I 
am made to feel that I am only received on suffer- 
ance.” 

Her voice trembled, and tears were in her eyes. 

“I think you are right,” said the young man. “ You 
will not go alone, however ; I shall go with you.” 

They departed together, and when they were in the 
street, des Armoises said : 

“ Foolish little girl ! Such a trifle is not worth cry- 
ing for ! That old simpleton is not worth one tear from 
your eyes ! Take my arm, we will walk along quietly, 
and this lovely moon will put us in good humor.” 

This friendliness comforted Ang^le. She refused 
to think that the walk was long. She forgot the words 
which had wounded her, in her delight in listening to 
Rent’s voice. The air was soft, and the Quai on which 
they stood, nearly deserted. The Seine ran on with 
a caressing, gentle murmur, in the moonlight. 

“ What a glorious night ! ” cried Ren^. “ My bosom’s 
lord sits lightly on his throne.” 

“ Because you have a foretaste of fame,” said Ang^le, 
with a smile. “All the people speak of you.” 

“ Do you think I care for that ? ” he asked, contempt- 
uously. “ No, no, my ambition vaults higher, I assure 
you.” 

“ Do you know what makes me very happy ? ” asked 
the girl. “It is, that I was the first to predict your 
success. How many times I have talked of it to Joseph 
Toussaint.” 


angele’s fortune. 


113 


“Toussaint? Ah! yes, to be sure; and what has 
become of him ? ” - 

“ I have no idea. He left Bay at the same time my 
mother did, and we have heard nothing of him since.” 

“With what an air of indifference you say that! 
and the poor fellow was much in love with you.” 

“ Do you really think so,” she asked, with eyebrows 
lifted in coquettish and affected amazement. 

“ I do indeed, and many a time have I been iealous 
of him I” 

“ You I ” cried AngMe, and in this one simple 
word, surprise and joy as well as gratitude were plainly 
to be read, as also a subtile acknowledgment of Rent’s 
immense superiority over the obscure Joseph. Des 
Armoises read all this, in the sweet young face, and he 
drank in, with the insatiable and eager vanity of an 
artist, the flattery of her voice and eyes. 

“You are laughing at me,” she murmured timidly, 
but her eyes were lifted to Rent’s face, and in the 
moonlight, they seemed to ask the poet, if the little 
country girl had occupied his thoughts for even one 
brief hour. 

Rene understood this silent question. “I am not 
laughing at you, sweet one I ” he answered, for he was 
not a man to count his words or his oaths. “ If you 
read my verses carefully, you will find more than one 
allusion to that ball where we danced together. I see 
you now in your simple white dress, with your cluster 
of lilies of the valley in your belt. That was the 
evening when I lost my heart.” 


7 


114 angele’s fortune. 

“ And yet ” — she sighed — “ you went away ! ” 

Ren^, touched by the truth of these words, did not 
know what to say for a moment. 

“Yes,” he answered finally. “I went away, but my 
heart was torn with grief.” 

“Not so,” answered Ang^le, shaking her head, “ those 
who go are not the ones who suffer. Those who remain 
are the sad ones.” 

“ Dear child ! ” he exclaimed, really moved this time, 
and lifting the slender hand that was passed through 
his arm, he pressed his lips to her wrist. 

Ang^le caught her breath. Ah ! that kiss on the 
deserted Quai in the moonlight ! How many times did 
she recall it in after years ! That brief second was 
engraven on her heart, with the minutest details of time 
and place. 

In front of them, on the other side of the Seine, 
rose N6tre Dame, with its rose windows and ogives, 
shining in the moonlight, a light gray mist was rising 
from the ground, and the cathedral looked like the 
gigantic shrine of some precious relic, sparkling with 
precious stones. The heavy carriages thundered over 
the distant bridges, whose gas-lights burned red, in 
the pale rays of the moon. Sailors hailed each other as 
they pushed their boats, and occasionally persons pass- 
ing by, looked at the couple leaning on the parapet with 
curious eyes, but Ang^e and Ren^ seemed to think 
themselves at the end of the world, for they neither 
heeded, nor cared for these glances. The poet held the 


angele’s fortune. 


115 


girl’s hand in his, and the two stood motionless, looking 
down into the water. 

“ I love you,” murmured Ren^, suddenly, excited by 
Angele’s beauty — by the softness of the night — and 
still more by that wine of youth, which bubbled in his 
veins. 

“ Truly ? ” she asked, with earnest eyes. Then she, 
in her turn carried away, opened her heart to him. 

“ I have loved you,” she said, passionately, “ ever 
since the first day I saw you ! You passed over that 
little bridge by the church, and I sat at my window and 
watched you. At the noise of the mill-dam, your horse 
started, but you let him see that you were master, and 
in the little excitement which followed, the rose in your 
button-hole fell on the ground. No one saw it but 
myself. It lay there until night. I was so afraid some 
one would pick it up, that I dared not take my eyes 
from it. In the dark, I glided out, and brought my 
faded treasure into the house. I ought not to tell 
you this, I know, for when you fully understand how 
foolish I have been, you will cease to love me.” 

“ Dear child ! ” thought Ren^, as he pressed her hand. 
“ All she tells me, proves that I have a heart, a posses- 
sion, which I had begun to doubt. I certainly must 
marry, and love her in return.” 

The clock of N6tre Dame struck slowly, and all the 
churches in the neighborhood, repeated the sound in 
every possible variety of tone. 

“ Eleven ! ” exclaimed Ang^le, aghast at the lateness 

\ 


116 


angele’s fortune. 


of the hour. “ I must get home as quickly as possible.” 
They turned their faces homeward, but did not move 
very quickly, however. The night was delicious, the 
air soft and balmy, and the spring time of their love 
entrancing. 

Ang^le related some of her girlish impressions, while 
he, in his turn, liked to bewilder her unripe judgment 
and develop her enthusiastic fancies by the expression 
of his own, which he threw at her feet, as roses are 
thrown before the images of saints in procession, on 
holy days. 

Never did Ang^le forget that night! 

“Here I am,” she said at last, as she lifted the 
heavy knocker of her door. 

“ Already ! ” answered Ren4, taking both her hands 
in his in a tender clasp. 

“ Good night,” she murmured ; and then, as he left, 
she added, hurriedly : “ Come and see us, won’t you ? 
Mamma would be delighted.” 


angele’s fortune. 


117 


CHAPTER VII. 

A YOUNG ACTRESS. 

I T was ten o’clock, and Ang^le, before going to her 
lesson, was breakfasting in the room which served 
the double purpose of sal6n and dining-room. The old 
oak chest of drawers, with its swelled front, brass 
trimmings and claw feet — the table, in the same style — 
the tall clock in the corner — all the massive furniture, 
in short — spoke of the provinces. On one corner of 
the table Madame S^n^chal had arranged the break- 
fast — an appetizing cutlet, a tiny pat of yellow butter 
and a brown roll, fresh from the Vienna bakery — and 
now bustled about, bidding her daughter eat every 
mouthful and grow fat. In vain did Angele entreat 
her mother to breakfast with her. Madame S^n^chal 
turned a deaf ear to these entreaties, and, after her 
daughter had left, she devoured huge slices of bread 
and cheese, washing it down with a glass of w^ter. She 
would willingly have deprived herself of the necessaries 
of her life that her daughter might enjoy the luxuries. 
On her arrival in Paris, she resumed the trade she once 
learned, and worked by the day, and often far into the 
night, in a dressmaker’s establishment. 

This was not very lucrative toil, and barely paid the 
daily expenses. The money brought from Bay was 


118 


angele’s fortune. 


fading away rapidly. Ang^le felt keen remorse on 
seeing her mother work so hard, but Madame Sendchal 
only said, 

“ Never mind ; I am used to it, and you can recom- 
pense me one of these days.” Nothing weakened her 
confidence in the ultimate success of the girl. The 
tailor and the florist, who lodged on the same floor, 
were wearied to death by the mother’s enthusiastic 
dreams. 

“As soon,” she said, “as my daughter makes her 
appearance, all Paris will ring with her name, for I 
assure you, actresses with Ang^le’s talents are not easily 
found, and she is good, too,” continued the mother, 
with honest pride. 

When AngMe was rehearsing her roles in the dining- 
room, Madame S^n^chal persisted in having the door 
open, in the hope that some theatrical manager would 
chance to be coming up the stairs, and, charmed by 
what he heard, would rush into the room and ofPer a 
fabulous sum for an engagement. She had read of such 
a thing in one of her novels, and she placed the most 
absolute faith in such providential occurrences. On 
this especial morning, Madame S^n^chal was even in a 
more hopeful mood than usual. When she rose, she 
had consulted the cards, which had told her all sorts of 
pleasant things. 

“ Drink that chocolate,” she said to AngMe, bringing 
it to her in a pretty china cup, with a silver spoon. 

“ Ah, you spoil me,” cried the girl, kissing her. 


angele’s fortune. 


119 


warmly. Then, as she heard a step on the stairs, she 
looked round. 

“ It is Monsieur des Armoises, probably,” said her 
mother, for Rend now called every morning. 

“ No, it is not his step. ” 

Madame Sendchal opened the door and uttered a 
cry — “ Joseph Toussaint ! ” 

“Yes, Joseph himself,” said Toussaint, gay ly ; “and I 
have had the greatest trouble in the world to find you. 
But here I am at last, and overjoyed to see you.” 

He kissed Madame Sdndchal and timidly pressed 
Angele’s slender hands. His eyes were full of tears, 
although his lips smiled. 

“ Where on earth did you come from ? ” asked the 
girl. 

“ I have been in Paris some time,” he replied. “ I 
got very tired of Bay, and Boblique’s office. The life 
there got to be intolerably dreary. I was thinking of 
going home, when I learned that my, nephew, who is a 
soldier, was ill at Paris. So I said to myself, ‘ Joseph, 
my boy, that is where you are needed,’ and off I 
came.” 

“ And your nephew ?” 

“ Oh, he is all right again ; but I remain, having 
fallen into a thing which, I trust, will lead to satisfac- 
tory results.” 

Another knock was heard, and in came Rend, who 
seemed heartily glad to see Joseph, and as the hour had 
arrived for Angele to go to the Salle Corneille, the two 


120 


angele’s fortune. 


young men insisted on going with her. On leaving the 
house, Joseph asked himself if he should offer his arm 
to Ang^le, but, before he could decide, Ren^ had 
gently drawn the girl’s hand through his. He re- 
signed himself, therefore, to walking at their side, and 
they all three crossed the Luxembourg, where the 
bright, wintry sun was shining on the frost-bound twigs. 

“ Tell us what you are doing here,” said Rene. 
“ Are you in a law office ? ” 

“ No, heaven be praised ! ” answered Toussaint. “ I 
have cut myself adrift from all that sort of thing. I 
have found a position as private secretary to a Senator. 
He is clever in thought, but without the faculty of 
expression ; so I write all his discourses.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Ren^, laughing, “I see ; and one of these 
days, you will end by uttering them yourself ! ” 

“ I hope so,” answered Joseph, with quaint gravity. 
“ I confess I am often struck — on seeing what I have 
written, published the next morning — at the eloquence 
of the words, and the roundness of some of the periods. 
I am grateful to this man, moreover, for allowing me, 
under the sanction of his name, to utter truths which 
may possibly do some good.” 

“ Oh ! that is your style, is it ? ” answered des 
Armoises, in a tone of light disdain. “ You feed your 
soul on unctuous meditations.” 

“ I do not feed my soul at all,” answered Joseph, 
somewhat annoyed. “ I am cleaning and purifying it ! 
The oil in my lamp had grown thick. I am endeavoring 


angele’s fortune. 


121 


to restore its limpidity. Let me tell you what hap- 
pened to me the other day.’’ 

“ Go on.” 

“ I went into a church one afternoon — Saint Germain- 
des-Pr^s. It was full of mysterious shadows. The 
pictures, the incense, and the candles burning on the 
altar of the Virgin, kindled a certain religious fervor 
within me. I saw a venerable priest enter a confes- 
sional. I followed him, and sinking on my knees 
— carried away by emotion — I began a recital of my 
life. I warmed up as I went on. I told the priest all 
my doubts, my hesitations, and my secret sorrows and 
hopes. My vanity became excited ; I thought my 
words quite interesting, and was persuaded that my 
confessor felt the same. When I ceased speaking, the 
priest lifted his head. Had he been asleep, or did he 
wish to humble me ? I can not tell, I only know that 
never was I so astonished, as when he said, in a gentle 
voice : 

“ ‘ My son, do you know how to read ? ’ 

“ Imagine my feelings ! I paid little attention to 
anything else he said. I merely remember that he 
advised me to read a certain little book, the name of 
which he mentioned.” 

Angdle laughed until she could hardly speak. 

“I wish I could have seen you come out of that 
box,” she said, at last. 

Joseph looked much scandalized. 

“You are like the Parisians now,” he murmured. 
“ You laugh at everything.” 


122 


angele’s fortune. 


“ And this chilled your ardor ? ” questioned Rene. 

“Yes, very much ; and I have not yet recovered from 
the effect of that day.” 

By this time, they had reached the Salle Corneille, 
where Ang^le took leave of them, and the two young 
men went off to breakfast. 

“ Then,” said Joseph, “ you regard Mademoiselle 
S^ndchal’s life as decided upon ? She will adopt that 
wretched profession — ” 

“ Why do you use that word ? Why is the profes- 
sion of an actress wretched ? ” 

“ How can you ask such a question ? Of course you 
literary men do not regard it with our eyes, but you 
can not deny, that to a young girl, and a country bred 
one beside, the influences and associations of a dramatic 
career must be very perilous. How, too, can Ang^le 
be certain of success ? ” 

“ In art, one can never be certain. Success is a 
matter of patience and determination. One must do 
one’s best, and wait.” 

“To learn to wait, is in itself, a good thing ; but one 
must live in the meantime, and these people are very 
poor. You are fortunate, my dear fellow, in having it 
in your power to serve them, and obtain some engage- 
ment for AngMe.” 

For some reason, Rene did not like this. He 
shrugged his shoulders as he said: 

“ You totally over-estimate my influence. It is not 
an easy thing for me to induce a manager to bring out 


angele’s foktune. 


123 


one of my plays, and with what face could I, a fellow 
of my age, recommend a young girl of twenty? You 
are sufficiently a man of the world, to know the infer- 
ences which would be drawn at once.” 

“ Rent’s tone irritated Joseph, but he was forced to 
see a certain justice in what he said. When he first 
saw Ren^ with Angdle, that morning, he thought the 
poet loved the girl ; but this conversation did away 
with that idea. 

“ If he loved her,” he said to himself, “ he would 
speak very differently. I would move heaven and 
earth to be useful to Angele. No I He does not love 
her ! ” 

Once persuaded that Ren^ was not touched by 
Angdle’s sweetness and beauty, Joseph felt hope- 
ful again. The episode of the confessional had 
moderated his leaning toward fanaticism, and he 
became interested once more in the affairs of every- 
day life. He came constantly to visit the Sdndchals, 
and fell more deeply in love with Angele, than he was 
in those old days at Bay. 

Madame S^n^chal welcomed him cordially. In her 
eyes, he was another adherent to her daughter’s colors, 
and she felt that the time might come, when he would 
be very useful. She was also infinitely more at ease 
with him, than with Ren^. To Joseph, she would 
disclose her petty economies, which she concealed from 
her daughter. Her means were almost gone, and the 
poor woman had learned the way to the pawnbrokers. 


124 


angele’s fortune. 


The watch and gold snuff-box of her husband, were in 
pledge, as were her gold earrings. It was Toussaiht 
who had executed this commission, which he did with 
secret abhorrence. The amount raised on these relics 
was so small, that the young man added a considerable 
sum, which he had little difficulty in persuading 
Madame nuchal to accept. 

Ang^le realized nothing of all these privations and 
these shifts. She lived in a little world of her own. 
She was happy in the adulation of her poet — happy 
when she closed her eyes at night with the words on 
her lips, “he loves me!” — happy when she awoke in 
the morning, that she would see him that day. She 
had regained all her elasticity of spirits, and Joseph 
watched her with delight. Rent’s constant attention 
awoke no suspicion in his mind, for the poor fellow was 
so occupied in analyzing his own situation, that he was 
blind to much that went on about him. Then, too, 
preferring to see Ang^le when Rend was not there, he 
took the mornings for his visits, when she was alone 
with her mother ; and after Angdle had gone to her 
lesson, he would linger for an hour, listening patiently 
to the old lady’s lamentations, over the stupid indif- 
ference of the managers. 

“ Really, too,” said Madame’ Sdndchal, one morning, 
“ it is quite time that something should be done, for we 
have hardly a penny left in the world. I have kept 
the grocer calm, by talking to him of the great future 
before my daughter. But, after all, these people have 


angele’s fortune. 


125 


no patience, and our credit is gone. We relied too 
much on Monsieur La Genevraie’s promises, and he has 
not been near us for a month.” 

Toussaint listened silently, went away sooner than 
usual, and was not seen for a week. 

“Another friend gone,” sighed Madame S^nechal. 
“ It is always the way when people are in trouble.” 
She was furious at Joseph’s indifference, and abused 
him without mercy. Ren^ and Angdle were astonished 
at Toussaint’s sudden eclipse. She could say nothing 
definite, however, as to the cause of her indignation 
against him, and one evening, while she was scolding 
vehemently, J oseph walked in with smiles and an air of 
mystery. 

“Ah! ” said the old lady, “I thought you had for- 
gotten the road to this house.” 

“Forgotten it! By no means. I was anxious to 
arrange a little matter, however, before I came again, 
and it took more time than I thought it would. And 
now,” he said, plunging his hands in his pockets and 
looking about him impressively, “ I have a piece of news 
for you.” 

“News? Do you mean to become a Priest? ” asked 
Madame S^n^chal, who was not yet softened. 

“ By no means. This is a question of entering a very 
different world ! Guess ! ” 

“You are to be married?” cried Angele, laughing. 

“No,” answered Joseph, shortly, irritated at seeing 
her admit such a possibility; “you are all wrong. 


126 


angele’s fortune. 


I will tell you. My patron, the Senator, is an ardent 
Catholic, but by no means insensible to worldly pleas- 
ures. The Manager of the Odeon is his personal 
friend. I spoke to him of Mademoiselle’s talent, and 
finally succeeded in obtaining a promise from him to 
use his influence with the Manager. He succeeded, 
and this is a letter which appoints two o’clock on 
Tuesday for an interview.” 

Angdle uttered a little shriek of joy, and, rushing 
toward Joseph, seized his hands and snatched the letter. 

“ Kiss him ! ” cried her mother. 

Angele obeyed, without stopping to think, and for 
the first time Toussaint felt the girl’s fresh lips touch 
his cheek. He returned the kiss with deep respect. 

The faces in the little room had all changed their 
expression. Madame S^n^chal was joy itself; Ren^ 
tried to look indifferent ; and AngMe, after her first 
irrepressible joy, had become very thoughtful. She 
thought to herself how happy she would have been, had 
Ren^ brought her this letter, instead of Joseph. She 
was depressed at the thought that he had succeeded, 
where Ren4 had failed. 

“I knew,” cried Madame S^n^chal, “that you were a 
good soul, Joseph, and would never fail me.” 


angele’s fortune. 


127 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AMBITIOUS HOPES. 

T he next morning, Ang^le was awakened by a great 
splashing of water. It was a starch bath that her 
mother was preparing, “in order,” the old lady said, 
“ that your complexion shall be quite perfect when you 
make your d^but.” The old lady never questioned the 
result of the hearing, which had been obtained for 
Angdle, and was building new castles in the air. She 
thought their present lodgings quite too obscure for her 
daughter in her coming celebrity, and she looked at 
apartments almost daily, wherever she liked the loca- 
tion. She ordered from a dressmaker a handsome 
black silk robe, trimmed with jet, which would, she 
thought, satisfactorily bring out Angle’s snowy skin. 
To pay for this dress, she sold the oak chest of drawers, 
for which she was offered a very good price at a bric-^ 
brae shop. 

“You need not worry,” said the good lady. “We 
shall be able soon to buy rosewood and mahogany ! ” 
Finally, the fateful day arrived. La Genevraie, who 
had volunteered to take the girl to the Manager, 
appeared in one of his most eccentric costumes. He 
found Ang^le waiting for him, in her new and well-made 
black silk, while her mother was smoothing its folds 


128 


angele’s fortune. 


with tender and reverential care. As the weather was 
fine, La Genevraie, quite proud of his fair companion, 
gave her his arm, and they walked. Angele had not 
supposed that her interview with the Manager would 
have been on the stage itself. Such, however, was the 
case ; and dreary enough was the scene by daylight. 
At the further end of the house two gas burners looked 
like stars. 

Angele went toward the foot lights and distinguished 
the orchestra stalls, where La Genevraie and the Man- 
ager were sitting. Over the edges of the boxes were 
thrown linen cloths, to protect the velvet and the gild- 
ing from dust. The same dismal winding sheets were 
laid on the seats of the parquette, producing a most 
sepulchral effect. In the obscurity the new silk gown 
was absolutely lost. 

At a friendly sign from La Genevraie, Angele drew 
a long breath and began to recite the grand speech in 
Ph^dre, at the end of the fourth act : 

Ah ! douleur non encore eprouv^r 
A quel nouveau tourment je me suis reservee.” 

She had studied these lines with the greatest care, 
and her rendering of them had been highly applauded 
in la Salle Corneille. Her voice was full of passion and 
of pathos as she uttered the words. 

Us suivaient sans remords leur penchant amoureux, 

Tout les jours se levaient clair et sereins pour eux.” 


angele’s fortune. 


129 


She heard La Genevraie say, in a low voice : 
“ Superb ! what grace ! and what a voice ! ” 

The Manager, an old actor, with dyed moustache, 
checked the enthusiasm of his companion, and Ang^le 
finished amid a silence that was far from encouraging. 

The Manager begged her to favor them with some- 
thing from the modern repertoire. She had selected 
the scene where Marion de Lorme throws herself at the 
feet of Louis XIII. and asks mercy for Didier. Al- 
though she threw into this scene all the energy of which 
she was capable, she keenly felt that her audience — to 
use a word that has recently crept into use — was not 
enthused. The voice which filled a drawing-room 
sounded poor and weak in this vast theatre. Her 
delicate features were without tragic force, and her 
gestures lacked ample grace. La Genevraie, as mute 
as a fish, was no longer in a mood to applaud. 

The Manager went on the stage and addressed, for 
form’s sake, a word or two of approval to Angele. 
Several of the subscribers, who had sauntered in, also 
complimented the girl, but nothing serious or positive 
was said. 

“Well, what is your decision?” asked La Genevraie 
of the Manager. 

“ I will write to the young lady and give her my 
answer, in a week from to-day.” 

AngMe bowed and departed. 

“ Come ! come ! ” said La Genevraie, when they were 

8 


130 


angele’s fortune. 


out of sight of the Oddon. “ Don’t look so wretched — 
things are going well.” 

He was afraid of a scene and wished to comfort her. 

“ Do you really think so ? ” asked the girl, with tears 
in her eyes. “ I do not seem, to myself, to have made 
the smallest impression.” 

“A Manager is always cold, he prides himself on 
being so. Besides, he thinks if he were to show the 
smallest enthusiasm, it would lead you to expect a 
higher salary. You do not understand these people, 
my dear, they are regular robbers.’' 

“ Then you think I did pretty well ? ” continued poor 
little Angdle. 

“You were magnificent, my child — magnificent! ” 

His words inspired the girl with hope and confidence 
once more. Alas I she had so much need of hope that 
she was not difficult to convince. Madame Sdnechal 
met them at the door. 

“Well!” she exclaimed impatiently. “How soon 
does your engagement begin?” 

“ Nothing is decided yet,” answered Ang^le, with a 
smile, but La Genevraie went on to tell her, that they 
would know in a week. The mother was satisfied, for, 
thoroughly persuaded of her daughter’s talents, she 
was certain that the decision could only be in the 
affirmative. 

“They ought to be overjoyed to have you!” she 
murmured, as she wiped the dust from the beautiful 
black silk. 


angele’s fortune. 


131 


Ren4 and Joseph came in to hear the result, and La 
Genevraie described the scene with many embellish- 
ments. Joseph was thanked again, and Ang^le looked 
tenderly into Rent’s eyes. They dined merrily in the 
shabby dining room, and then they all went to the 
theatre, where La Genevraie presented them with a box. 

Madame Sendchal took a new apartment in la Rue 
de Rennes, and while she busied herself with her 
moving into her new quarters, did not forget the hours 
when the postman was due. 

Angele’s anxiety was quite equal to that of her 
mother ; as the days passed on the hope that had buoyed 
her up forsook her. She lost her appetite — was 
feverish and nervous — her attacks of somnambulism 
returned, and one night her mother found her in the 
dining-room half dressed and asleep. 

“ I must go out,” she said. “ They are waiting for 
me at the theatre.” 

“Poor dear child,” murmured Madame S^n^chal, 
“ even in her sleep she worships her profession.” Then 
with tender precautions, she led her back to her bed 
and watched her, until she sank into a natural sleep. 

When their furniture was moved, Madame S^ndchal 
discovered that the things which looked well in their 
modest rooms, had a very different effect in their new 
quarters. The curtains of white calico, the arm chairs 
where the hair was finding its way through the worn 
coverings, looked piteously shabby by the side of the 
fresh paint and gilding. The very concierge glanced 


132 


angele’s fortune. 


contemptuously, at the old fashioned furniture which 
their new lodgers were sending up to the fifth story. 
The old lady was much mortified, and a new mania took 
possession of her brain. Her husband had left to her three 
vineyards worth about fifteen hundred francs. She 
determined to sell these at once ; to do this with the 
greatest possible speed, she felt compelled to go to Bay. 
It was hard to do this, before she saw the letter from 
the Odeon, but she begged Joseph to send her a tele- 
gram at once. She dwelt in her own mind, with con- 
siderable delight, on the effect which such a telegram 
as she pictured, would create among all her old friends. 

One morning, therefore, after installing AngMe in 
their new home, she kissed her tenderly, promised to be 
back in less than a week, and departed by the noon 
train. 

When she was alone the young girl went to work 
putting their rooms in order. She threw open the 
window which looked on a garden ; a warm May sun 
shone in gayly. She was standing on a chair, nailing 
up some curtains when Ren^ entered gayly, with a 
great bunch of fragrant violets in his hand. 

“ I wish to be the first to decorate your room,” he said 
as he gave them to her. 

She took them and the poet’s hand together, and 
then placing the violets in a vase, she buried her pretty 
flushed face in their cool freshness. 

“ How delicious ! ” she cried. “ The very embodi- 
ment of spring ! ” 


angele’s fortune. 


133 


Then turning to her curtains she asked permission 
to finish her task. Stepping lightly upon the chair she 
lifted her arms high above her head, showing in all its 
beauty the rounded outlines of her bust ; her head was 
thrown back, while a ray of sunshine glittered in her 
hair like an aureole of gold. Never had Rene thought 
her so pretty. The ribbons at her throat fluttered in 
the open air from the windows. Her cheeks were paler 
than usual, and a dark circle around her eyes harmo- 
nized with the unwonted carelessness of her toilette. 

Des Armoises looked at her in silent admiration. 

“ That is done ! ” she cried, jumping down from the 
chair ; and taking a low seat, she drew it to the side of 
her poet. The odd little smile peculiar to herself which 
seemed to affect only one corner of her mouth was on 
her lips. 

“What have you to tell me?” she said. 

“ A great deal. In the first place, I stopped at the 
Od4on yesterday, and left your new address and 
insisted on a prompt reply.” 

“Ah! that reply!” sighed Ang^le. “If you only 
know how I dread it even while I long for it. Suppose 
it should be a refusal ! ” 

“Is your heart so set on the career of an actress?” 

“Yes — and beside, I should feel that you would love 
me no more, after so humiliating a downfall.” 

“ What an outrageous thing you are saying, child ! I 
love you, sweet, not the artist.” 

“ Would you love me if I were poor and in rags? ” 


134 


angele’s fortune. 


“ Child ! child ! ” he exclaimed in a tone of passionate 
protestation, but his smile was gone, and a slight frown 
was on his brow. For to his artistic, luxurious nature, 
even the word poverty grated on his nerves like a dis- 
cordant note. 

“Why do you say such things?” he asked, half 
impatiently. “The woman whom I love, will never 
have — thank God poverty to contend with, nor rags 
to mar her beauty.” 

They both relapsed into silence, through the window 
came the joyous notes of the blackbirds in the garden. 
Angele was very serious, almost sad. Her long fringed 
lashes with their downcast lids, gave to her face a look 
of maidenly purity. Ren^ was much moved by her 
beauty. He snatched her hands and drawing her 
toward him, pressed a kiss on her full white lids. She 
was momentarily stunned by his vehemence, but when 
Ren4, emboldened by her submissive silence, attempted 
to put his arm around her waist, she drew herself away 
hurriedly. 

“ No I no ! ” she cried, her brow, her cheeks and her 
throat flushed with scarlet. 

Her eyes were at once so tender and reproachful, so 
loving and so sad, that des Armoises was touched, and 
turned away silent and ashamed. 

“It is late,” said Angdle, looking at the clock; “you 
must go now, but you will come to-morrow, will you 
not?” 

“To-morrow? No,” answered Rend, by this time 


angele’s fortune. 


135 


quite displeased with himself, that he had obeyed her. 
“ I promised to devote to-morrow to my mother, who 
complains that she never sees me.” 

“Day after to-morrow, then?” She gave him her 
hands and said, with a charming smile : “ Love me — 
love me well — for I am worth the trouble ! ” 

And they separated ; he in a whirlwind of passion, she, 
nervous and troubled. When the door closed behind him 
she went to her violets, and lavished on them the kisses 
which she had refused to Rene. She then sank into 
the chair where he had sat, and relapsed into thought, 
from which she was aroused by the concierge, who 
appeared with a letter, the sight of which brought her 
heart to her mouth. 

It was a square, blue envelope, on which was her 
name, and in the corner these printed words, “ Imperial 
Theatre — the Od^on.” She ran to her room, locked 
herself in, and held the letter in her trembling hands, 
not daring to open it. That envelope contained all 
her future. Suddenly, drawing a deep breath, she tore 
it open, and devoured its contents. 

Alas! it was simply a polite letter, in which, while 
the manager rendered all justice to her talents, he 
informed her that the company was full, and that it 
would be impossible to make any additions to it this 
season. There was not the smallest hope held out for 
the future, nothing but a pitiless refusal, disguised 
under the most courteous form. 

Her heart swelled, her mouth became parched, her 


136 


angele’s fortune. 


eyes were riveted on this scrap of blue paper, which 
she had dropped on the floor, and which shivered in 
the wind from the window, like a living thing. Her 
fingers mechanically tore the envelope to bits. 

“ Refused ! What would her mother say on her 
return ? How were they going to live ? 

They had so fully counted on this engagement, that 
they had allowed themselves to become swamped with 
debts. Angdle saw nothing before her but poverty, that 
poverty in rags which, such a little while ago, had struck 
such a chill to her lover’s heart. In the midst of this 
great shipwreck, nothing now was left to her but Rene’s 
love, and would that love long resist the stings and 
arrows of outrageous fortune ? A terrible fear of losing 
Rene now filled her heart. She longed for tears, but 
her eyes were dry; the blood rushed to her head, and 
her temples beat like sledge hammers. The painful 
throbbing was so intense, that the power of thought 
seemed paralyzed, but by degrees she realized again 
what had happened. She loathed the room she was in, 
and her eyes involuntarily turned to the window, from 
whence she could see a portion of the sunset sky. The 
sound of church bells reminded her of those old days 
when, leaning from her window in the Rue des Savon- 
naires, she listened to the same sounds, at the same 
hour. 

Oh ! those dear and careless days, how she wished 
they were hers again. 

This great house, with its thin walls, through wliich 


angele’s foetune. 


137 


came the thousand discordant noises of a crowded 
Parisian interior — this room, without an association 
of any kind, filled her with shrinking disgust. She 
longed for the old sound of lapping water, the 
accompaniment of the vesper hymns. She listened 
with feverish eagerness to the distant bells. It seemed 
to her that her spirit accompanied the sounds into 
space, and that nothing but her tired body remained in 
that dreary room. It was a very singular sensation. 

She shivered and awoke from her dull bewilderment. 
She closed the window, tried to unfasten her dress, but 
had not the strength, and strangely ill, with a wild fever 
in her blood, she dropped on the bed with a feeling of 
utter exhaustion. 

Her sleep was haunted by a nightmare. She dreamed 
that she was buried alive, and that her coffin was sent 
to the canal that ran past the windows of her old home, 
and through the ripple of the water came to her the clear 
voices of the church bells. She tried to raise the lid 
of her coffin, but all in vain; she uselessly tore her 
fingers against the unyielding planks, and through all 
her struggles came the sounds of those persistent 
bells. 

She woke with a start, and found herself standing 
at the door of her room, with her hands on the lock. 
Every one knows the sensation of awakening suddenly, 
in a room where one sleeps for the first time. Angele 
had no idea where she was. The position of the win- 
dows, the bare walls, the furniture even, looked new 


138 


ang^le’s fortune. 


and strange. A ray of moonlight fell from an uncur- 
tained window, and added another weird element to 
the place. Her brain was excited by fever. Was 
it delirum or hallucination? Some new articles of 
furniture cracked with a sharp sound, that by daylight 
she would not have noticed ; the blinds rattled, and ^ 
affected her nerves like a discharge of musketry. The 
ray of moonlight crawled over the floor like a phantom. 
She heard voices whispering in the dark corners, and 
with a wild shriek, she threw open the door and ran 
down the stairs. 

The gas was extinguished, but the moon, over which 
the wind was driving light clouds, cast long rays of 
light on the stairs, and seemed to be accompanying 
AngMe in her hurried flight. Her terror increased, 
and she fancied herself pursued by the weird shadows 
which had driven her from her room. She went hastily 
through the lower corridor and rapped on the door of 
the concierge, calling to him in an entreating, piteous 
voice. He was only half awake, supposed that one of 
his lodgers wished to go out, pulled the cord mechan- 
ically, and fell asleep again. The outer door thus 
silently opened, and Angele suddenly perceived, at the 
end of the dark corridor, the quiet street, flooded by 
the moonlight. It looked peaceful and attractive. 
She dared not go back to her room, and the girl was 
out into the street, and walked straight on. Her mind 
was strangely confused, only one idea took any form, 
and that was, the determination to find somewhere that 


angele’s fortune. 


139 


station, which was bright with lights, and where stood 
innumerable trains, ready to start. Among them there 
must surely be one for Bay. She must hnd the station, 
there was no time to lose, and she wandered about in 
that net-work of narrow streets between the Luxem- 
bourg and la Rue de Rennes, and became hopelessly 
entangled among them, going over the same ground 
again and again. Her feet, covered only with thin 
slippers, were bruised against the stones of the pave- 
ment. Her tired limbs tottered beneath her weight, 
and she sank on some steps in a doorway. Her dream 
still haunted her. She seemed to hear the sound of 
running water and tinkling bells. She was sitting 
motionless, with her head sunk on her breast, when a 
heavy hand grasped her shoulder and shook her vio- 
lentl}^ 

“Well! well! little woman,” said a policeman, “this 
is no place to sleep ; you had best go home.” 

She shivered, and looked at him with wild, affrighted 
eyes. 

“ No, no ! I must go — I must go away ! ” 

“ Where do you live ? ” 

She made no other reply than to repeat these same 
words, “ I must go away ! I must go away ! ” 

“ All right ! we will go, then ! ” and the man drew 
her arm through his and raised her to her feet. Ang^e 
made no objection, but meekly obeyed him. He took 
her to the station house, and put her in a long, narrow 
room, fitted with camp beds, on one of which she took 
her seat, still repeating her refrain — 


140 


angele’s fortune. 


“ I must go away ! I must go away ! ” 

The intense heat of the room seemed to soothe her, 
after being chilled in the night air. She fell asleep, 
and slept the rest of the night. 

In the morning she was awakened, and taken before 
the Judge, in the next room. Her fever had abated, 
and her mind was clearer. She looked wildly about 
her, and entreated in an agony of terror, that she should 
be allowed to depart, but her entreaties were unheeded, 
and she was somewhat roughly hustled into the pres- 
ence of the Judge, who was just up, and very much out 
of temper. 

He read aloud from a paper before him — 

“A woman found in a doorway, either drunk or 
crazy.” 

AngMe shuddered from head to foot. 

“ Your name ? ” said the judge. 

She gave it, and added an entreaty that she might 
be allowed to depart. Her voice was as faint and low 
as the breath of a sleeping infant. 

“ Where do you reside ? ” 

She looked at him uneasily, but did not speak. A 
mortal fear of being sent back to the room, from which 
she had fled, now assailed her, and her tongue was liter- 
ally paralyzed by this fear. Instead, therefore, of 
giving her address, she simply requested to be taken to 
the station where she could take a train for Bay. 

“But you live in Paris,” repeated her examiner, 
coldly; ^‘give me your address, or I shall be compelled 
to commit you.” 


ANGELE S FOKTUNE. 


141 


These questions, and this threatening tone, did their 
fatal work. The fever coursed madly through her 
veins again. Her blue eyes opened wider, and from 
her parted lips came the words : 

“ Oh ! let me go ; let me go to my father ! ” 

“ Who is your father ? What does he do ? ” 

“ My father ? ” She hesitated, tried to collect her 
ideas, and then burst into wild sobs. 

“ He is dead ! ” she cried. “ He is dead ! ” 

Three men looked on at this heart-breaking scene. 
The Judge shrugged his shoulders and tapped his 
forehead lightly. 

“ W eak intellect,” he said, slowly. 

“ I must go,” repeated Angdle. “ Oh ! let me go ! ” 

“ Yes, certainly,” answered the Judge, blandl}^; and 
turning to one of the policemen, he sent him for a 
carriage. 

A few minutes later, AngSle entered a fiacre with 
one of the men. The idea that she was on her way to 
Bay, calmed her, and she Jiad fallen off into a drowse, 
when the carriage stopped before the special entrance 
of the Prefecture which leads to the Infirmary. Here 
patients are examined by a physician. In the case of 
those whose minds are affected, this physician decides 
where they are to go. If it seems to be a temporary 
insanity, they are sent to one establishment; if the 
malady appears to be deep-seated or chronic, to another. 

As soon as she entered the place, Ang^le realized 
that she had been deceived. The two rows of cells, 


142 


angele’s fortune. 


separated by a narrow corridor, the grated doors, and 
the ghastly groans and sighs, told her the truth. She 
turned to fly, but she was caught, thrust into a vacant 
cell, and the door violently closed. 

“ They are all the same,” said the man, pulling down 
his coat-sleeve calmly. “ I can get along better with 
ten mad men, than with one mad woman ! ” 

A mad woman! This cruel word was heard by 
Ang^le. Memory returned to her, and she sought to 
prove to herself that she was not mad. She asked 
herself what she had done, that she should be thrown 
into this horrible spot, and she sank into a stupor. 

It was in this state that the physician found her. 
He was a middle-aged man, wearing a white cravat, 
grave and plausible. At the sound of his voice, 
Ang^e looked up, and seeing a person with the exte- 
rior of a gentleman, a little hope and self-possession 
returned to her. She begged him to help her and told 
him her story — not very clearly or connectedly, to be 
sure — but she told of her mother’s departure for the 
country ; of the letter from the Od^on ; of her flight in 
the night, from her room in the Rue de Rennes. 

The physician listened attentively. The girl’s beauty, 
the music of her voice, all made an impression upon 
him. He seemed to be somewhat perplexed, however. 
Angle’s words were sensible enough, but her eyes were 
too bright, her manner too excited by far, and to allow 
her to leave the place, might be to let loose a most 
dangerous maniac. The patient was very interesting 


angele's foktune. 


143 


certainly, and he was touched by her words and voice ; 
but his duty remained the same, and he could not 
afford to be sentimental. 

“Very well then, my child, you shall go,” he said, 
rubbing his hand over his smooth chin. “ I will order 
you to be taken back to the Rue de Rennes.” 

“ Oh ! no, not there ! ” she cried in an agony. 

“ And why ? ” he asked, in a most insinuating voice. 
“ Is it not there you live ? ” 

“ Yes ; but I am afraid — so afraid ! ” 

“ Afraid of what ? ” 

“ Of everything — of the furniture, which cracks so 
strangely — of the moonlight crawling over the floor — 
of whispering voices in the corners.” 

“Ah! you hear voices, do you?” 

“ Yes, strange voices, which frighten me.” 

“Precisely,” murmured the doctor, with a faint 
smile ; and he wrote down, 

“ Melancholy monomania, with partial delirium, 
hallucination in regard to voices.” 

Then the doctor rang the bell, and when the nurse 
appeared, he said, gently, to Angdle, in his soft, 
melodious voice : 

“ Take her to Sainte-Anne’s.” 


144 


angele’s fortune. 


CHAPTER IX. 
s ainte-anne’s. 

R ene DES ARMOISES rose the next morning in 
the best possible spirits. The day promised to 
be fair. He was eager to see AngMe again, and 
regretted that he had promised to give the day to his 
mother. He insisted on her going into the country 
with him, the better to conceal his restlessness. They 
spent several hours in the Bois de Meudon, where the 
hawthorn was coming into bloom. He returned to 
Paris that night, happy in the mere fact of existence — 
intoxicated by the fresh air, and the smell of growing 
things. 

The next day, he hurried to la Rue de Rennes. His 
lips had touched the cup, and he wished to drain its 
contents. He did not believe in satiety, and he deter- 
mined to obtain the kiss, for which he had so vainly 
petitioned. Just before he reached the house, he met 
Joseph Toussaint coming away with a pale, troubled 
face. 

“ She is not there ! ” cried Toussaint, “ and no one 
knows where she is.” And he went on to tell all he 
had learned. He had gone up to Angele’s room, the 
day before, and had found on the floor, the letter from 
the manager of the Odeon. 


angele’s fortune. 


145 


“ Then,” he said, “ I understood it all, and, knowing 
as I do, the peculiar temperament and undisciplined 
nature of the girl, I fear the worst. I spent the whole 
of yesterday looking for her, but all in vain. I even 
went to the morgue,” he added, in a lowered voice. 
“ The concierge just told me that the police had been 
to him to make inquiries, and I think, from what they 
said, that Angele must be at the station-house.” 

Des Armoises started back, and in a hoarse voice, 
exclaimed : 

“We must go there at once ! ” 

“Yes,” said Toussaint; “but just think what an 
awful thing it is ! Imagine that poor child, shut up all 
night at the station with the wretches that are there I 
Oh ! Paris ! Paris ! ” 

Ren^ hailed a passing fiacre, and the two young men 
drove to the station, where began a long succession of 
useless questions and detentions. Ren^ became furi- 
ously angry, while awaiting the arrival of the head of 
the bureau. At last they learned the terrible truth. 

“Mad!” cried Ren^, “you are all mad together, I 
think ! ” and he dashed out of the room ; but is was too 
late now to go to Sainte- Anne’s. 

The next morning, the two friends found themselves 
at an early hour, before the high, white walls of the 
asylum. Within, they encountered new delays, and 
when, at last, the presiding deity of the place conde- 
scended to receive them, he said, in answer to their 
inquiries : 

9 


146 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


“ Yes, the person of whom you speak, was here, but 
she left this morning.” 

“ Where has she gone ? ” 

“ To La Salp^triere.” 

“ But it is a burning shame ! ” cried Ren^, impetu- 
ously. Mademoiselle S^n^chal is perfectly sane. You 
have been fooled by some one ! ” 

The Director shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You will allow me,” he said, with a smile of cold 
disdain, “to place more confidence in the judgment of 
my medical man than on yours.” 

“ But it is simply infamous,” continued the poet, and 
I shall make the whole thing known to the public, 
through the journals.” 

“ Just as you please,” answered the dignified func- 
tionary. 

When they were in the street, Joseph turned and 
looked up at the high walls. 

“ What are we to do now ? ” he asked, despairingly. 

“ Something, at all events,” answered Rend, his eyes 
flashing indignant fire. “ I have it ! Telegraph to her 
mother. She is really the only person who has a right 
to claim her daughter.” 

They despatched a telegram to Madame Sdndchal ; 
Rend remembered that he had a certain friend, who 
could facilitate his entrance to La Salpdtridre, and the 
next day, through the influence of this friend, he was 
able to see the Director. 

Rend, in this whole affair, showed the greatest pos- 


angele’s fortune. 


147 


sible energy and determination. He was one of the 
many men whose passion for a woman redoubles in the 
face of obstacles. It was incredible, he declared, that 
Angele, so bright and charming one day, could have 
gone mad in twenty-four hours, and loudly asserted 
that it was one of those audacious stupidities of which 
one only too often hears. It may also be remembered, 
that about this time the newspapers were violently 
attacking the law of 1838, in regard to the treatment of 
the insane. Ren^ swore he would never rest until 
Angele was at liberty. 

“Do you know,” said Toussaint, looking at him 
admiringly, “that I was very much mistaken in my 
opinion of you ? I fancied that you were made without 
a heart — that your mind had drained it dry.” 

They were informed at La Salp^triere that Made- 
moiselle S^n^chal was under the care of Dr. Spiral, who 
alone could allow them to see her. “ As to myself, I 
can but give you a permit to enter the house itself, 
and this permit can only be used by one of you.” 

“ I shall use it,” said Rene to Toussaint, imperiously, 
“ and you will wait for me in the court-yard.” 

Joseph hesitated a moment. “You are right,” he 
said, with quivering lips, “ you will know better than I, 
what to say to the doctors.” 

The Director showed Ren^ into the wing reserved 
for the insane. “ Dr. Spiral will be here soon,” he 
said, “but remember that he is very strict. Interest 
him in this young person, if you can, but I warn you, 


148 


angele’s fortune. 


that if you attempt to communicate with her without 
his consent, that I shall be forced to withdraw my 
permit.” 

He walked through the corridors and saw the solid 
doors on each side, with their iron bars and bolts — the 
baths where the patients are placed, with only the head 
free. He heard the rattle of keys, as the assistants 
hurried past, with huge bunches at their girdles, and 
caught a glimpse of some poor crazy creature, with 
disordered hair and wild eyes, who crouched in a corner 
at his approach. 

Fifteen hundred poor wretches lived under this roof, 
if the existence they endured, could justly be called 
living. Every variety of mental malady was there 
assembled, classed and ticketed. 

Ren^ found Dr. Spiral, when he reached his office, 
washing his hands, like any ordinary person. The 
poet, making a great effort over himself to be humble 
before this great man, told him as briefly as possible 
Angele’s story and the cause of her illness. 

“I know the case. It is a most interesting one,” 
said the Doctor, as he polished his finger nails with the 
towel. 

“ Can I see her ? ” 

“ See her ! By no means. She has been too much 
excited. A brain fever — congestion of the brain, I 
may say. We shall cure her, but absolute quiet and 
repose are essential.” 

“ It is absolutely impossible that her malady is more 


angele’s fortune.. 149 

than the insanity of fever,” cried Ren^, “for on the 
evening she disappeared, she was as gay as ever and 
quite as clear-headed.” 

The physician smiled, as he inspected his finger-nails 
once more. “You may think so, but you are quite 
mistaken. That is one of the most subtle forms of 
insanity. In your eyes the girl’s mind is unimpaired ; 
in mine it is seriously affected. She has certain symp- 
toms that are unerring, as, for instance, she wakes with 
a start from her sleep, and trembles with imaginary 
terrors, and when allusion is made to the circum- 
stances under which she came here, she shrinks and 
cowers — ” 

“ Ah, sir ! ” interrupted Ren^, “ how should you or I 
behave, think you, if we were arrested in the middle of 
the night, and put into an insane asylum ? ” 

The physician smiled coldly. “ To show you,” he 
said, “that I am right, I will let you see her, but you 
must give me your word not to move from where I 
place you.” 

He opened a door looking out on the inner court and 
he himself went into a room opposite, Ren^ stood and 
looked through the panes of glass, which had been care- 
fully whitened, but the paint was scratched off in several 
places. 

The Doctor soon reappeared in the court, accom- 
panied by Ang^le. He recognized the simple black 
cashmere dress as the one she had worn, when he last 
saw her in la Rue de Rennes. Her head was uncovered, 


150 


angele’s fortune. 


and the beautiful chestnut hair, of which she was so 
proud and arranged with such charming coquetry, 
fell in disordered masses on her shoulders. Pale, and 
with an anxious look in her sweet eyes, she followed 
the physician, who walked with his hands in his pockets. 

The poet’s eyes filled, and he felt a strange choking 
in his throat, as he saw the fair young creature in this 
horrible place. He closed his eyes for a moment, and 
when he opened them Angele was no longer to be 
seen — only the Doctor, who came back with his slow 
and stately stride. 

Des Armoises returned to Toussaint, to whom he 
recounted the painful scene. “ It is horrible ! ” he 
cried, as he finished. 

Joseph listened, with his eyes fixed on the barred 
windows of the asylum. 

“ What are you thinking about ? ” said Ren^. 

“I am thinking,” answered Joseph, “of the many 
simple girls in the provinces, who idly dream in the 
twilight, of the joys of life in Paris. If they only could 
see these walls and hear this story, they would shiver 
with salutary horror, and would relinquish forever, their 
hopes of leaving their grass-grown streets, and prefer to 
grow old in their country homes.” 

“Come ! ” replied Ren^ impatiently. “We must do 
something.” 

Angele had been taken by the Doctor into a room in 
the “harmless” ward, which was furnished with two 
long tables, around which about fifty of the patients were 


angele’s foetune. 


151 


working. A piano stood open at one end of the room. 
At first sight there was nothing singular in the. appear- 
ance of the assembly, but on closer examination cer- 
tain eccentric details made themselves apparent — 
bizarre toilettes, odd gestures, vacant smiles, and voices 
without the smallest variation in their tones. 

One girl, wearing her hat and with a card case in one 
hand as if going out to pay visits, had spread on her 
work box about twenty photographs. She was prick- 
ing these assiduously with her needle, talking all the 
while in a low voice. Another had on her lap, a travel- 
ling bag packed with baby’s clothes ; she opened each 
tiny shirt, peered into every sock, shook the skirts and 
dresses vehemently, as if the dust that fell from them 
would disclose some great mystery, and then carefully 
folded and replaced them in her bag, only to take them 
out again immediately, and enact the same scene. 

Angele took a chair and her work, just as a woman 
with gray hair falling over her shoulders, rose, and with 
her finger on her lip, went on tiptoe to the piano, whose 
notes she began to touch lightly. Suddenly she played 
a gay prelude, and then sang in a voice which was still 
fresh, a fragment of a popular song : 

“ Mignonne Cecelia, 

Ah! All! Cwelia.” 

This song made on Angele a most profound impres- 
sion. It brought back her childhood. She remembered 
the shady square at Bay, where on spring afternoons 


152 angele’s fortune. 

the little girls on their way home from school, sang and 
danced for an hour before supper. She again drank in 
the aromatic freshness of the willow branches, with 
their yellow fluffy catkins, which was borne in armfuls 
to the church on Palm Sunday. She saw her father 
standing on the doorsteps waiting for her, with a kind 
smile, and her tears dropped on the towel she was 
hemming. 

She had been delirious all the time she was at Sainte 
Anna’s. Her fever had left her now, but in its place 
was utter exhaustion, and although her memory had 
returned to her, she was too weary to exercise it. She 
vaguely thought she was in this place, through a mis- 
take which would soon be rectified. She was, however, 
a little astonished, that neither her mother or her friends 
came to find her. She had asked permission to write, 
but the Doctor forbade the nurse furnishing her with 
writing materials. 

It was in the night however, that she was most 
wretched ; the dismal sounds about her, kept her from 
sleeping, and she sobbed in lonely misery in her narrow 
iron bed. She thought constantly of her father, and 
had come to believe that her incarceration in this asy- 
lum was in consequence of her undutiful conduct 
toward him, and she accused herself of being the cause 
of his death. 

The day after Rend had seen her as we have des- 
cribed, the girl had a surprise which brought a ray of 
hope to her heart. He came to the Hospital with a 


angele’s fortune. 


153 


package of clothing for Ang^le. In this package he 
had placed a hundred trifles which should show the girl 
she was not forgotten — her thimble — her half finished 
embroidery — a prayer book, and lastly a branch of the 
yellow catkins, which her mother had brought from 
Bay. 

The good lady had returned the night before, and 
her indignation passed all bounds when she heard what 
had taken place. She burst out in objurgations 
against Paris and the Parisians, the government and 
the police. She insisted that Joseph should accompany 
her at once to the Hospital, where she asked in authori- 
tative tones for her daughter. 

“Nonsense!” she cried. “AngMe mad! I never 
heard anything so preposterous. There never was any 
insanity in our family, thank God! My daughter is 
the victim of some plot ; her companions are all jealous 
of her talent — and — but there is no use talking about 
it. I want her at once.” 

The Doctor was considerably disturbed by the scanty 
ceremony shown by the old lady, and not over patient 
by nature, he now began to grow very angry, and 
declared that Ang^e should not leave the Hospital 
until he believed her to be absolutely cured. 

“ An insane person,” he said, “ may become at any 
moment a public danger. The law gives me the right 
to detain her, and I shall take advantage of that law.” 

As the dispute threatened to become violent, the 
physician rang the bell and bade the servant show 


154 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


Madame S^n^chal the door, “ who,” he said roughly to 
Joseph, “is quite as mad as her daughter.” 

Ren4 was summoned as soon as the hurt and angry 
mother reached home, and the next day she began, 
under his advice, a series of personal applications to 
magistrate after magistrate. She told them her whole 
story and that of her husband, and wearied them to 
death, which fact did not predispose them in her favor. 

Poor Joseph, whose self-appointed duty it was to go 
about with this terrible woman, began to lose courage. 
Ren4 in the meantime went to La Salp^triere daily. 
He had determined at all risks to give Angdle a note 
which he held in readiness, and which contained a 
warning, that she was soon to be subjected to a series of 
questions, and he begged her to be careful how she 
answered them. 

He hoped each day that some happy chance would 
allow him to give this note to Ang^le, but none offered 
itself. He spent two hours daily at the asylum, and his 
constant presence evidently annoyed the physician, 
while the nurses and certain of the servants, had come to 
know the handsome youth, who was so persistent in his 
inquiries for the girl with the beautiful blue eyes. 
They detected a romance, and every woman, whatever 
she may be, even a nurse in an insane asylum, keeps in 
a little corner of her heart, a certain amount of sym- 
pathy for a love affair. 

They talked to him of AngMe, and one of them even 
went so far, as to infringe on the rules by speaking to 


angele’s foktune. 


155 


Ang^le of the handsome young fellow, who walked up 
and down the corridors every morning. 

One morning this same woman having seen Angele 
alone in the court, went and told Rene, at the same 
time — either by accident or intention — leaving the key 
in the door of communication. Des Armoises hurried 
to the glass window. Yes, she was there, nervously 
looking toward the door ; it seemed as if some instinct 
had told her that the man she loved was near. Ren^ 
took from his pocket the note he had prepared, and held 
it in his hand. Angele turned abruptly at this same 
moment to the door, and opening it wide saw Ren^. She 
ran toward him crying loudly : 

“ Take me away ! Oh I take me away ! ” 

This scream had been heard, the Doctor ran from his 
ofl&ce, and the nurses all hurried to the spot. AngMe 
was dragged away, but not before Ren^ had time to 
slip his note into her hand. 

“ Ah ! poor thing ! ” murmured all the women in 
chorus. “ She has seen him at last ! ” 

The Doctor was in a towering rage, and spoke very 
angrily to Ren^, who replied in much the same tone. 
The result of this altercation was that Ren^ was never 
allowed to cross the threshold of Salp^triere again. 

The poet had seen the girl for a moment only, but 
that moment had shown him, that she was losing flesh 
and color, and he was certain that she could not endure 
this life much longer. He, too, was growing thin 
under his anxiety and suspense. His mother noticed 


156 


angele’s fortune. 


this, as well as his low spirits, and began to suspect 
that some affair of the heart was troubling him ; finally, 
one day at dinner, when she saw her son send away 
his favorite dishes untouched, she became irritated and 
spoke out. 

“ What has gone wrong with you ? ” she asked. 

“ I will tell you,” replied Ren^. He always found it 
impossible not to talk of the things which interested 
him. He told his mother the story of Ang^e. 

Although Madame des Armoises turned very pale as 
she listened to this confidence, her features were set like 
stone — hard and pitiless. All her maternal jealousy was 
aroused. She felt absolute hatred for Ang^le — for 
that low-born girl, who might ruin the future of her 
idolized son. 

“ This, then, is why you are so wretched ? ” she re- 
plied, with cold bitterness. “ You can think of nothing 
but an actress — and what an actress! — graduated 
from la Salle Corneille. It is simply preposterous I ” 

“ That may be,” answered Rene, who was very impa- 
tient under contradiction or opposition ; “ but I love 
her ; and it seems to me that my confidence deserves a 
little more sympathy from you.” 

“ I hate that girl I ” said Madame des Armoises, 
almost frantically. “ She makes you neglect your work, 
forget your ambition, neglect your social duties and 
your mother I I hate her, I tell you, and I hope, for 
your own happiness and mine, that she will never leave 
the place in which she is.” 


angele’s fortune. 157 

“ Mother ! mother ! ” cried Rene, profoundly shocked. 
He choked down the indignant words on his lips, tossed 
his napkin on the table and left the room. He went at 
once to find Joseph, and told him of what had taken 
place at Salpdtriere. 

“ Angele will become really mad, if this goes on much 
longer, and I shall do some rash act.” 

“Keep calm,” answered Joseph. “I have spoken to 
my master, and I know he will do something.” 

In fact, the Senatorial influence was productive of 
the best results, for as soon as it was known that a 
person of importance had taken the affair in hand, the 
administrative machine condescended to move a little 
faster. And, finally, Joseph told his friend one even- 
ing, that AngMe would be examined the next day, and 
if the result were favorable, that she could be removed 
at once. 

Then the anxious mother discussed the matter with 
the two young friends — what questions would be asked, 
and was there no danger of their being so insidiously 
shaped that they would confuse her ? 

Fortunately, Angele had read Rent’s note. These 
few lines were to her a folio volume. She was certain 
now that Ren^ loved her and would never abandon her. 
So that, when she was ushered into the presence of the 
Examining Board, she was so thoroughly on her guard, • 
that the precision and clearness of her replies astonished 
even Dr. Spiral. 

When the examination was over, the Director decided 


158 


angele’s fortune. 


to give a certificate of health, and informed the poor 
mother — breathlessly waiting in the next room — that 
they could come for her in two days. 

“Now,” said Rend to Madame Sendchal, “it will 
never do for your daughter to go back to those rooms, 
which have no other associations to her than those of 
horror and loneliness. I took a tiny furnished house 
at Velzy, near the Bois de Meudon, some little time ago, 
that I might have a quiet place to work in, and I shall 
be most glad to put it at your disposal. We will go 
there to-morrow, and put it in order for your daughter.” 

Madame Sdndchal thanked him, but looked a little 
embarrassed. Des Armoises, absorbed in his new pro- 
ject, did not notice this, however. Joseph, whose 
sensitiveness was much greater than his friend’s, de- 
tected her uneasiness at once, and concluded that it 
was some pecuniary difficulty which troubled her. He 
returned the same evening, and had no great difficulty 
in obtaining from her the statement that her purse was 
utterly empty. He then insisted on her acceptance of 
a note of five hundred francs, and as he slipped it into 
her hand, he said : 

“ Everything is very dear in the environs of Paris, 
and your daughter needs nourishing food. Oblige me 
by saying not a word to any one, of this money.” 

Madame S^n^chal accepted the favor at once. She 
had no scruples where her daughter was concerned. 
Besides, what could the poor woman do ? 

Consequently, Toussaint went off, joyfully rubbing 
his hands. 


angele’s fortune. 


159 


The day came at last, when Madame S^n^chal received 
her daughter in the parlor of the Institution. When 
they went out and saw a carriage standing at the door, 
Ang^le drew back, with a troubled look. 

“ Where are you taking me ? ” she asked, anxiously. 

“ To a place,” said Ren4, “ where you can enjoy the 
coming of the spring — where you can live in the 
woods and fields — which will do you far more good 
than all the prescriptions the whole medical faculty 
may write for you. Coachman, drive to the Western 
Station.” 


160 


angele’s fortune. 


CHAPTER X. 

BIRDS AND FLOWERS. 

T he house that Rend had taken, stood outside the 
village, and near the wood, and was surrounded by 
an orchard, veiled by cherry trees and tall raspberry 
bushes. It was thus hidden from the scrutiny of inquisi- 
tive neighbors. The lower windows could hardly be 
seen at all through the flowering mass of vines, while 
the upper ones looked out on a view that was calcula- 
ted to calm the most troubled soul, for the waving tops 
of trees extended as far as the eye could reach on the 
right ; occasional openings showed a glade golden with 
yellow broom. A slight floating mist indicated the 
fish ponds in the depths of the forest. 

On the left, was a plain, covered with young rye, 
which rustled in shimmering waves under the bending 
branches of the apple trees, all pink and white with 
blossoms. When, the morning after her arrival, Ang^le 
opened her window and looked out, she uttered a cry 
of delight, and her eyes filled with tears. The birds 
were singing gayly, and the notes of the cuckoo came 
from the depths of the wood, while the confused hum- 
ming of insects was the sonorous bass to the concert. 
The air was full of sweetness from the orchard, and it 
seemed to Ang^le that she was born anew. The soft 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


161 


breeze blew away the remaining fog in her mind, and 
all recollection of the hospital. She felt much as 
people do, when on a mountain height they see the 
clouds break and the blue sky appear. 

Angele adored Ren^. To her former admiration and 
love, a profound sentiment of gratitude was now added. 
Had he not rescued her from that horrible place? Had 
he not for a month, spent all his mornings at Salpd- 
tri^re, watching over her — supporting with resignation 
all the rebuffs of the physician — he, too, who was so 
proiid and so headstrong. 

Never once did it occur to her, that Joseph Toussaint 
deserved any portion of her gratitude. Love is pro- 
verbially selfish, and Angele, in this case, proved no 
exception to the rule. Joseph was forgotten. When 
he appeared at V^lzy, that evening, she thanked him 
to be sure, with all that grace which she imparted to her 
smallest act. This reception delighted the poor fellow, 
who fortunately did not see the eager hands she 
extended to Ren^, when he, pushing open the door, 
stood in the bright sunlight, with a cluster of lilies-of- 
the-valley in his hand, looking as gay and as full of 
vitality as one of the young gods in the Iliad. Fortu- 
nate, too, for Joseph’s peace of mind was it, that he did 
not hear the words Ren^ uttered in the girl’s ear, nor 
her low murmur in reply. 

The “thank you, dear Joseph!” with which the 
girl took leave of Toussaint, was not much, but 
enough to quicken the beating of his heart, and as he 
10 


162 


angele’s fortune. 


sat .that night at his desk, writing the rounded periods, 
with which the Senator, the following day, would 
delight a listening crowd, these words continued to ring 
in his ears. 

From the light imprint left by twig and leaf on a 
block of coal, the savant is able to construct an entire 
prehistoric Flora. So with that simple phrase, did 
Joseph re-erect all his castles in Spain, the building of 
which he had originally begun in Bay. 

Angele seemed to have done with the theatre for the 
present, and he made up his mind, that she should 
never more have anything to do with the profes- 
sion. For him to be firm on this point, he must be 
able to offer her a secured position. To this, he must 
find a lucrative and steady field of labor. If he were 
not rich, he was beyond the reach of absolute poverty, 
and he felt that he could carry his head high, if he had 
a wife and a family. The thought brought the color 
to his cheeks. Yes, Angele must be his wife. He 
would watch over and guard her. The moment was 
opportune ; this miserable termination of her theatrical 
career must have disgusted Angele, and cured Madame 
S^nechal of her senseless ambition. He would strike 
while the iron was hot, and propose to the young girl 
at once. Audacity was not among Joseph’s charac- 
teristics, and the mere idea of entering the little cottage 
at V elzy for this purpose, nearly took the young man’s 
breath away. 

“Ah!” he murmured, “If I only had the golden 
tongue of Ren4 des Armoises ! ” 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


163 


In tlie meantime, things went gajly on at V^lzy. 
Thanks to Toussaint’s considerate and timely assistance, 
the household expenses were duly paid. They had a 
woman come by the day for the heavy work, while 
Madame Sdnechal, who was a very dainty cook, 
attended to that part of their daily life. 

At the end of a week, Angele looked like a different 
creature. Her color had returned, and the restlessness 
of her eyes was entirely gone. She never spoke of 
the theatre, but said constantly, that she was never so 
happy before in her life. 

Madame S^n^chal was less enthusiastic. She did not 
like to walk ; she preferred people to trees ; she lived 
in a perpetual state of terror in regard to caterpillars, 
earwigs and snails, and declared that life in the country 
was dull and wearisome. She regretted the noise of 
Paris, the long saunters past the lighted shop windows 
in the evening, the chat in the 16ge of the concierge, 
the novels from the circulating library, and the even- 
ings at the theatre. She still continued to sew for the 
dressmaker who had first employed her, and when she 
could bear it no longer, she pretended that business 
took her back to Paris. Reri^, on the contrary, 
declared that the odor of asphalt, on these warm May 
evenings, was unendurable. He consequently came 
regularly to V^lzy. He had hired a horse and rode 
through the woods. Angele learned to expect him 
each day, at the same hour, and went down the lane 
through the orchard to meet him. 


164 


angele’s fortune. 


She heard afar off, the rapid trot of his horse. The 
color mounted to her face the nearer the sound came, 
and when he appeared, she would gladly have turned 
and fled, that he might not see how deeply she was 
agitated. 

Immediately on Rent’s arrival, they went into the 
forest, and strolled in the direction of V^lzy, through 
the shad}^ paths carpeted with velvety, green turf, 
soft to both foot and eye. Sometimes, when he could 
win a holiday from his Senator, Joseph was of the 
party. He adored the country ; flowers, grass and 
trees bewitched him. He knew the haunts of each 
wild blossom, when and where to look for them. 

“ The birds,” he cried, “ are the orchestra, which 
celebrate the marriage of the flowers ; or may it not be 
that the flowers, like those gay carpets hung, on fete 
days over balconies, bloom and display their beauty, to 
celebrate the marriage of the birds ? ” 

Ren^ and AngMe looked at each other, and smiled 
silently. Had they been urged to say of what they 
were thinking, they would have answered that the 
flowers and the music of the birds, “ were in honor of 
the love in their own hearts.” 

When Joseph was not there, the lovers had Madame 
S^n^chal as a chaperon. She certainly was not a diffi- 
cult or burthensome one, for when she had gone about 
ten steps, she took her seat at the foot of a tree and 
pulling a novel out of her pocket, said she would await 
them there. 


angele’s fortune. 


165 


Then the two young people, left to themselves, 
enjoyed the charm of being alone together, amid this 
exuberance of life and growing things. Sitting under 
the beeches, the soft air brought to them the intoxicating 
odor of lilies of the valley and hawthorn. They came 
back at sunset, with their arms laden with flowers, 
which they arranged in huge stone pitchers, while dinner 
was being prepared. 

When they sat at the dinner-table, the windows 
were opened, and the raspberry bushes and the honey- 
suckles pushed their slender branches between the 
curtains ; and when it was dark, they sat on the porch 
and watched the stars come out, one by one, and Een^ 
explained to Angele the various constellations. 

By this time Madame S^nechal usually fell asleep in 
her chair, and the poet possessed himself of the girl’s 
slender hand. The young people would have sat thus 
all night, but for Madame S^n^chal’s sudden start and 
assurance to Ren^, that the moment for the last train 
was near at hand. 

Strangely enough, in spite of the daily intercourse 
and the familiarity of their association, Ren4 was really 
less bold and infinitely more patient than in Paris. A 
secret and indefinable sentiment of jealousy, moderated 
and controlled his exacting and passionate nature. He 
feared to have the air of asking to be paid for the 
sacrifice he had made for Angele. The mere thought 
revolted him. That any one could suppose him guilty 
of such vulgarity and meanness, touched his pride and 
enabled him to control his passion. 


166 


angele’s fortune. 


This man, who ordinarily professed a sovereign con- 
tempt for the doctrine of moderation in pleasure, now 
was contented to drink the cup of his felicity, drop by 
drop. Singularly enough, returning health and spirits 
imparted to AngMe a certain expansiveness of manner 
and speech which was quite new in her. Without a 
thought of wrong-doing, she lavished upon Ren^ every 
mark of affection which could show him that she 
regarded herself as belonging to him, and to him alone, 
for the rest of her life. The tender clasp of their hands, 
the kisses exchanged on the doorsteps, the long, loving 
glances, were, one and all, like the links of a chain, 
drawing the lovers closer and closer together. 

The passion, which, on the one side, was honest, frank 
and reckless, was, on the other, impetuous and unre- 
strained, and was ever increasing, like a mountain 
torrent ; but it was only too certain that the day would 
come, when this torrent would dash them from their 
feet, and bear them down an abyss, from which they 
could never rise again. 

One evening, at the end of May, Joseph and Ren^ 
remained to dinner, and Madame nuchal complained 
bitterly of the length of the evenings in this quiet, 
secluded spot. 

“Would you like to go to the theatre to-morrow 
evening?” asked Ren^. “If you would, I have a box 
presented to me, which is entirely at your disposal.” 

The old lady accepted joyfully. 

“You shall go too?” she said, turning to AngMe. 


angele’s fortune. 167 

“ You are rusting out here, and it will be good for you 
to enter a theatre.” 

“No,” answered the girl, “I much prefer the forest, 
thank you ! I have taken a vacation of three months. 
In that time I do not intend to talk or think of the 
theatre. In the autumn we will make a new start, and 
I will try for an engagement. You will find some one 
in town to go with you, and I will keep house.” 

The good lady objected, saying that Ang^le could 
not stay there alone in such an isolated spot. It was 
finally decided, however, that the woman who came by 
the day, should sleep there the next night, and that 
Madame S^ndchal should leave by the early morning 
train. 

The next day, while Angle’s mother was on her way 
to Paris, Ren^ was riding through the woods in the 
direction of V^lzy. He intended to spend the whole 
day at the cottage, and, wishing to surprise Angdle, he 
left his horse in the village and walked on. When he 
entered the path that ran through the orchard, he 
walked softly and on the grass, that his footsteps might 
not be heard. He reached the dining-room window, 
and, looking in, saw Joseph Toussaint, installed on a 
large sofa, opposite a table, where Angdle sat, hulling 
strawberries. 

Joseph had made precisely the same calculations 
that Ren4 had done, and had determined to take that 
day, to open his heart to AngMe, when he could be 
sure of seeing her alone and without interruption. He 


168 


ANGELE S FOBTUNE. 


had come, therefore, to V^lzy without being invited, 
but his courage had now deserted him, and he had not 
one word to say to Angele, who, however, did not 
object to his silence, and hulled the strawberries, 
wrapped in happy thoughts. 

On seeing Toussaint, Ren^ was furious, but when he 
entered the room, there was no trace of disturbance on 
his countenance. Toussaint, however, blushed to the 
roots of his hair, and was thankful for the cool darkness 
of the room. Angele turned with a smile to greet her 
lover. 

Thi'ough the vines, swaying in the breeze, over the 
window, came an occasional gleam of sunlight, powder- 
ing the girl’s hair with gold, and falling on her white 
throat, just seen at the opening of her striped cambric 
peignoir. Her arms were visible under her loose sleeves 
in all their dimpled roundness ; her fingers, stained by 
the fruit, fluttered between the basket and the china 
bowl. Every motion was full of dainty grace. Occa- 
sionally she would select an especially large berry and 
put it in her mouth, with a gay little laugh. 

In this dimly-lighted room, Angele’s beauty was 
fresher and fairer than ever. The fragrance of the 
strawberries mingled with a pot of carnations, on the 
window sill, and made Ren^ wish more earnestly than 
before that their charming tete-^tete had not been 
spoiled. 

“ How happens it that you have got away from your 
desk ? ” he said to Joseph, in the cold, hard voice which 
was peculiar to him when annoyed. 


angele’s fortune. 


169 


“ It was such a glorious day,” said Joseph, good na- 
turedly, “ that I could not stay there. I cannot work 
steadily in the spring, it is no use to try ; I grow rest- 
less.” 

“ Spring has a bad effect on you, Toussaint ; I sup- 
posed you inaccessible to temptation.” 

“I!” cried the poor fellow. “Alas! I am an abso- 
lute Saint Anthony, beset on every side.” 

He sighed, and with a glance at Ang^le, went on in 
his own quaint phraseology — 

“Do you know, there are times when my soul 
reminds me of a warm summer afternoon, full of per- 
fume, and the gentle hum of insects — my reason sleeps 
then in this slumbrous quiet — but in the twilight, 
remorse, like bats ”- 

He stopped, for he saw that his words fell on unheed- 
ing ears. Rene was looking at Angdle, whose eyes 
were riveted on her task. He was irritable and impa- 
tient, and Toussaint gave no signs of departure. 

Finally des Armoises arose, and knocking his dusty 
boots with his cane, said : 

“Well, now that we have ascertained that there is 
nothing we can do for Mademoiselle Angele, we will 
leave her to her domestic duties. Come on, Tous- 
saint.” 

» “ I thought,” answered J oseph, “ that we might be 
allowed to stay to dinner.” 

“ In the absence of Madame S^ndchal,” Rend replied, 
“ it would be anything but proper ! ” 


170 


angele’s fortune. 


“Is that so?” murmured Toussaint, quite confused 
at this little lecture on propriety, administered by Ren^. 
“ Do you agree with our friend, Mademoiselle ? ” 

“I don’t know anything about it,” she answered, 
laughing, to conceal her embarrassment, and she pre- 
tended to be very busy with her strawberries. 

“ Come on, my dear fellow,” urged Ren4, pulling out 
his watch, “ we must start ; we have only just time to 
catch the train.” 

He hurried Toussaint off, and the two hastened to 
the station, Joseph quite unhappy at the failure of his 
plan, while Rend, on the contrary, was radiant and talk- 
ative. When they arrived at the station, he said : 

“ I shall leave you here, as my horse is in the stable, 
and I shall ride him back to town. Au revoir, my dear 
philosopher I ” 

He went in the direction of the stable, thinking that 
Toussaint’s suspicions might be aroused, and that he 
might take it into his head to watch him, but after he 
got out of sight he turned a corner quickly and hurried 
back to the cottage. 

He found Angdle just finishing her dinner. 

“ Ah ! ” she cried, maliciously, while her happy face 
gave the lie to her words. “ Why did you not go back 
to Paris with Joseph?” 

“You are sorry I did not, then?” he asked, seating 
himself unceremoniously at the table, and helping him- 
self to strawberries. “ Send me away, if you choose, 
but first be so good as to give me a glass of water, for 
I am dying of thirst.” 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


171 


She rose, brought a plate, and insisted on waiting 
upon him, seeming to find infinite pleasure in the antici- 
pation of every wish. When he had finished, she 
removed the dishes and rearranged the room. She was 
so delighted by Rent’s return that she listened to his 
voice — it seemed to her — with a keener pleasure than 
she had ever done before, and in her joy, she totally 
forgot her mother’s directions, and neglected to tell the 
woman not to go home that night. 

It grew dark without the lovers once remembering 
that they were alone. 

Angele lighted a lamp, and placed her little work- 
basket on the table. 

“ Is not this delightful ? ” she asked. “ Rene, are 
you happy in being here with me ? ” 

“I am very happy,” he said, in a low, caressing 
voice. 

“ Poor Joseph ! ” murmured AngMe, leaning against 
the window, and pressing her burning cheek on the 
cool, fresh leaves of the raspberry bushes; “he is 
entrenched behind his desk now. Do you not feel a 
little pang of remorse ? ” 

“ No, not the least.” 

But poor Joseph was not behind his desk; on the 
contrary, he was not very far away. When he reached 
Paris, it suddenly occurred to him that he had been 
very simple, and decided to return by the next train, 
and carry out his original intention. 

“ I went there to dare all, and I will go back,” he 
said, half aloud. 


172 


angele’s foktune. 


When he reached the wood, however, he began to 
wonder what he should say to Angele. He had dined, 
and even drank a bottle of claret, in the hope that 
he might find a little courage at the bottom of the 
bottle. 

The sun was setting, and he sat down by one of the 
fish ponds and listened to the frogs among the reeds — 
a distant tinkling cow-bell, and the voices of children 
at play — it grew later and later. 

“ This will never do ! ” he cried, starting to his feet, 
and he strode rapidly on. When he reached the garden 
gate he was, however, quite shocked to find how late 
it was. 

‘■‘I can’t help it,” he thought; “I will see her and 
talk to her to-night.” 

He walked up the path overhung with honeysuckles. 
Never were they so sweet before, and never in after 
life did he breathe their odor, without the choking 
remembrance of that damp, dewy night — the tangled 
path and the starry summer sky above. At a certain 
point in this garden walk, he could see into the dining- 
room, and this is what he saw and heard: the lamp 
was burning on the table, and he saw two heads 
through the vines, while voices broke the silence of the 
night. 

First he distinguished that of Ren^. He was repeat- 
ing a poem, in a voice all vibrating with passion ; when 
he had finished, Angle’s soft tones were heard. 

“ How beautiful ! ” she said. “ Ah, Love ! why are 
you so indolent in these days I ” 


angele’s fortune. 


173 


“ I am indolent, sweetheart, because I can think only 
of you. No one can serve two masters — Love and 
Art — you fill all my heart, to the exclusion of every- 
thing else. I am living a poem, to-day with you.” 

“ But will you not work a little for my sake ? ” she 
said, timidly, extending her two hands while she 
spoke. 

He grasped them and covered them with kisses, not 
only the hands, but the girl’s arms as well. 

Toussaint could bear no more ; he bit his lips until 
the blood came, and, careless of the noise made by his 
footsteps, he rushed away through the woods. Under 
this rain of kisses Angele’s cheeks blazed, afraid of 
herself and of him. She started up, and took a chair 
near the table and the lamp. 

The room was filled with the fragrance of the honey- 
suckle. 

“ Why do you sit there ? ” asked Rene ; “ why do 
you leave me ? ” 

“ Because ” — she hesitated. 

“ Because ” — he repeated, imperiously. 

“ I do not wish you to kiss me,” she replied, timidly. 

“ You do not love me ! ” he cried; “you do not know 
how to love ! ” 

And without looking at her, he went to the other side 
of the room, and sat down on the divan. Her tender 
heart was touched, at the thought of having wounded 
him, and she soon found her way to his side. 

“Do not be angry with me,” she said, “your cold- 


174 


angele’s fortune. 


ness cuts me to the heart. I do love you — and I do 
know how to love ! ” 

Rent’s arm slipped round the girl’s waist, and the 
poet kissed her unreproved — the nightingale sang in 
the garden — and the honeysuckle was sweeter than 
ever. 

Toussaint, lying in the forest, heard the birds’ divine 
notes, and breathed the fragrance of the honeysuckle ; 
both seemed to him forevermore the accompaniment of 
the cruel deception from which he was suffering. 

“ And I never suspected it ! ” he cried, bitterly. 
How blind I was ! They must have taken me for a 
fool! I had no chance against a fellow like that — so 
handsome, and so wonderfully gifted. I ought to have 
seen this at once, and kept my distance.” 

And almost involuntarily he began to think of the 
parable of the poor man with one lamb, who saw himself 
robbed by his neighbor, the owner of vast flocks. 

“ Des Armoises had so much ! art and pleasure — 
glory, and applause ! and I — I possessed only that one 
tiny ray of hope ! ” 

He uttered a groan. A nightingale’s song rose full 
and free — in reply, as it were — the bird’s notes were 
taken up by another, and then another, until it reached 
that casement overhung with vines. Angdle started. 

“Go!” she said; “my love — my life — you must 
depart ! ” 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


175 


CHAPTER XI. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

rilHE usual Thursday guests were taking coffee in 
I the salon of the Busserolles. The long windows 
opening on the balcony gave a glimpse of the Seine 
with its boats, and of the Quai a F H6tel de Ville, and 
the tops of the trees, yellow in the light of the setting 
sun. The host mounted guard near the liqueurs, and 
followed with an anxious eye the movements of those 
guests who were inconsiderate enough to fill their 
glasses themselves. 

Madame de Busserolles was extended on her chaise 
longue, and talking in a low voice with Madame des 
Armoises, while her niece, Marthe de Boissimon, was 
putting a lump of sugar into the cup which La 
Genevraie held toward her. 

“ What is Rene des Armoises doing in these days ? ” 
asked Monsieur Jolivart, as he sipped his coffee. 

“ What you, my dear fellow, will never do again,” 
answered La Genevraie, disdainfully. “ He is making 
love ! It is springtime, and birds and boys all do the 
same thing.” 

Madame des Armoises looked up quickly, and glanced 
with anxiety at La Genevraie, and then at Marthe, who 
tried to look indifferent. 


176 


angele’s foktune. 


“I heard,” continued Jolivart, “that he has with- 
drawn his play because he could not attend the rehears- 
als, and that he now spends all his time in the Bois de 
Meudon.” 

“ I dare say,” answered La Genevraie indifferently, 
“he is just at the age when a young man throws his 
money — if he has any, that is to say — out of the 
window. But after all Madame de Busserolles is to 
blame for the whole affair.” 

“ I ! ” cried that lady in great astonishment. 

“ To be sure, Madame. You and only you ! Do you 
remember the night when AngMe S^ndchal went away 
from here in tears? Well, Madame, Rene comforted 
her, and in doing so, lost his own heart.” 

“ You are perfectly insupportable,” cried the angry 
hostess. 

La Genevraie was quite unmoved by her indigna- 
tion, and exulted in his little joke that had created so 
much excitement. Madame des Armoises rose hastily 
and invited him to go with her out on the balcony. 

“ Tell me,” she said entreatingly, “ how long you 
have been aware of my son’s folly ? Ah ! my dear sir, 
you can have no idea of how cruelly it has mortified 
and distressed me ! ” 

Her tone was very bitter. La Genevraie contem- 
plated for a moment the clear-cut features of this 
imperious looking woman. She was still beautiful, as 
autumn is beautiful in its decay. 

“Ah! dear lady,” he said, “you take things in too 


angele’s fortune. 


177 


tragic a fashion ! You see them through the blue spec- 
tacles of the provinces, and make a mountain out of a 
molehill.” 

“ I am no prude,” she answered quickly, “ but I am 
disturbed at this affair, because this creature makes 
him forget his work, his duties, and his ambition. I 
have not seen him for a whole week. Do you think 
there is nothing in this to disturb a mother? ” 

“ Pshaw ! It is a mere passing fancy, and some fine 
day he will come back to you entirely cured.” 

“ Then it may be too late. I have made certain plans 
for him. I want him to marry a young girl whom you 
know. She has beauty and mind, family and fortune, 
and the whole thing was going on swimmingly, when he 
became bewitched with this little S^ndchal.” 

Her rage seemed to choke her : they were both silent 
for a moment or two. The noises of the street and the 
sounds of the piano on which Martha was playing the 
beautiful “ Blue Danube,” came to them. 

“ How selfish children are ! ” exclaimed Madame des 
Armoises suddenly. “I have lived only for him. 
When his father died, I was still a very young woman. 
I refused every solicitation to marry again ; was unwilling 
to allow any person to claim any part of my existence, 
or distract my attention from Ren^, to whom I desired 
to consecrate my life. I gave him everything — my 
time, my youth, my heart ! I counted the cost of noth- 
ing which could make him happy, or add to the pros- 
perity of his Future ; and now when the time has come 
11 


178 


angele’s fortune. 


that he could reward me for these sacrifices by according 
to me the only thing I have asked of him, he turns his 
back and deserts me ! ” 

Large tears filled her superb black eyes, and rolled 
slowly down her cheeks. La Genevraie watched them 
mechanically, and thought that at thirty, this woman 
must have been wonderfully beautiful. 

He was quite touched, and lifting her white jewelled 
hand to his lips, he kissed it, and said sympathetically: 

“ Do not grieve so much, dear lady. If I can serve 
you, command me. I am not precisely the stuff out of 
which preachers are made, but still if you say so, I will 
go and talk Rent’s very head off.” 

“ Oh ! pray do speak to him,” she exclaimed eagerly. 
“ I shall be forever grateful ! Coming from you — 
with all your experience of life — your advice and 
entreaties would have double the weight of mine, and 
as you are disinterested, your reproaches too would 
affect him when mine could not. Make him blush for 
his conduct. Induce him to break with this girl 
to-morrow, and forever. Time presses, and the person 
of whom we speak begins to tire of waiting,” and she 
glanced toward the piano where Martha was playing 
the last notes of the waltz.” 

“ To-morrow ! To-morrow is rather short notice,” 
replied La Genevraie, blandly. “ Supposing I succeed, 
and this liaison is as serious as you suppose, you must 
give Ren 4 time to break off the affair in a proper way. 
There are certain steps which should be taken in such 
matters. She will suffer.” 


angele’s fortune. 


179 


“ Let her suffer ! ” interrupted Madame des Armoises, 
in a tone that was inexpressibly hard. “ It will be her 
just punishment. Do I not suffer too ? For a whole 
month have I known one peaceful, happy moment ? I 
have been jealous, but I have also been anxious, for I 
never sleep until he comes in. Let her suffer now — 
it is her turn. Will you see Rend to-morrow?” 

“Yes, Madame.” 

Madame des Armoises returned to the sal6n, while 
La Genevraie remained on the balcony, looking at 
Paris. The gas was being lighted along the streets, 
and the life of the summer evening had begun. The 
corners of his insolent mouth were drawn down in their 
usual disdainful fashion. 

“ Every one for himself! ” he thought. “ Yes, that is 
always the way. Were the roofs of Paris lifted, one 
after the other, one would behold only selfishness, grovel- 
ling like those insects that one sees, when a stone is 
turned over. The selfishness of the mother, who 
grudges any portion of the heart of her children — the 
selfishness of the lover, eager for the possession of her 
whom he loves — of the ambitious man of letters — of 
the courtier and of the artist, who thrust aside all who 
stand in their path — the selfishness of the vicious for 
his vices — of the tradesman for his gold — of the priest 
for his chapel. On the whole, I am inclined to think 
that this mother is the best of them.” 

During all this time Rend was revelling in bliss, like 
those golden beetles who live among the roses. He 


180 


angele’s fortune. 


had a room in the village, and early every morning he 
went to the cottage. Madame S^n^chal allowed the 
lovers to do much as they pleased. All about them 
seemed calculated to show them how sweet was life. 
Never was a spring so lovely. The acacia blossoms 
rained on the turf, the lindens exhaled their heavy 
sweetness. The woods were full of flowers, and the 
nights were delicious, and the lovers were as happy as 
if this life were going on forever. 

One thing alone disturbed Rene’s peace of mind. 
AngM^’s mother, seeing his attentions to her daughter, 
naturally regarded him as her future son-in-law, and 
treated him with a certain familiarity, even sometimes 
permitting herself certain allusions, which never failed 
to bring a cloud to the poet’s brow. 

This was the first wrinkle in his rose leaves — the first 
thing which recalled him to the vulgar common-places 
of the world — and one day, when two or three annoy- 
ances of this kind had taken place. Rend, for the first 
time for a week, alluded to business matters, which 
called him to Paris. He told Angdle he adored her, 
and that he should return that night, and departed. 

He walked slowly through the wood, thinking of 
what Madam^ Sdnechal had said, and by the time he 
reached the station, was thoroughly out of temper, and 
when he arrived at the terminus in Paris he was by no 
means serene again. He was walking through La Rue 
des Rennes, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“I was just going to see you,” cried La Genevraie, 


angele’s fortune. 


181 


gayly. “As the mountain would not come to me, I 
determined to go to the mountain. Where on earth do 
you keep yourself? Your actors are all grumbling. 
If your play is ever to be brought out, now is your 
chance. It is true that you are head over heels in love, 
but after all, that is no excuse.” 

“ In love ! Who says so ? ” asked Ren^, with a con- 
strained laugh. 

“Every one. They say you are acting a delicious 
little idyl. That your Chloe is lovely I know, but still 
you are not a schoolboy. You should take things more 
coolly.” 

“I love according to my nature, passionately — with 
my whole heart ! ” answered the poet, in a piqued tone. 

“ So much the worse for you, then.” 

“ What on earth do you mean ? ” asked Ren4, impa- 
tiently. 

“ I mean that you should have more sense. Where 
is this mad passion to lead you ? To a foolish marriage? 
If so, good-by to art. Art is done for, so far as you are 
concerned, and we will read the requiem over the bier 
of Ren^ des Armoises, the poet.” 

“ You are very much mistaken. Love will never 
prevent me from working.” 

“I am mistaken, ami? Very well. I will show 
you to the contrary. You will marry Ang^le with the 
right hand or the left, and then you will quarrel with 
your mother. Now, I have heard, and I think I have 
been correctly informed, that your father left you, in 


182 


angele’s fortune. 


your own right, very little, and that your mother has 
nearly all, for the term of her life. Now you will be 
poor, my boy, and, if your mother won’t assist you, how 
will you live ? ” 

“ I will work,” said Ren^, triumphantly. 

“You will try to work, I dare say ; but you are a 
poet, and, worse still, a luxurious one. You want . 
flowers and perfume, music and mirrors — everything, 
in short, that belongs to a life of refined sensuality. 
Where will all these come from, when your mother 
draws her purse-strings ? and what will you, your wife 
and your wife’s mother do then ? ” 

“ I will write plays ” 

“ If you can. But the metier of an author is like a 
game of chess, which one wins only after long and 
patient combinations, and a man is not always in the 
mood to work and wait when beset every morning by 
two women ! Do you know what will become of you ? 
Look at me ! and La Genevraie stood still in the mid- 
dle of the sidewalk, wdth his back well hollowed, his 
hat a little on one side, and a bitter expression about 
his mouth. Like you, I had talent, enthusiasm and 
hope. I was as full of promise as an apple tree of 
blossoms, in the month of May. I ruined myself run- 
ning after a pretty brunette. Women take our money, 
our time, our strength, and our common sense. Thanks 
to them I have led a hand to mouth existence — living 
from day to day — scratching off clever articles on the 
corner of a table in a restaurant. I have never had 


angele’s foktune. 183 

time to condense myself on a book. Thus, in spite of 
my cleverness and my sense, I have achieved nothing. 
Let my fate be a warning to you, and don’t allow your 
life and your future to be ruined by AngMe ! ” 

“ According to you,” said Ren^, smarting under the 
lash of La Genevraie’s words, “an artist should live 
the life of a monk ! ” 

“ Precisely ! that is just my idea.” 

“ W ell, then, that is not my idea ! An artist requires 
to love and be beloved.” 

“ Go on, then, only for Heaven’s sake imitate the 
selfishness of the greater poets — Goethe, for example 
— who abandoned Frederica Brion the very day when 
he realized that she was a hindrance to his path to 
fame. Give up your love while it is young, don’t wait 
for old age to wither it and render it troublesome.” 

“Angele is but twenty,” answered Ren^, with a 
conceited smile, and she has some years yet, before you 
can call her old.” 

“ Age comes quicker than you think, my dear fellow. 
Besides, you cannot give your wife, if you marry 
against your mother’s wishes, the dainty toilettes you 
like. She will wear made-over dresses — dresses which 
have lost all their freshness — old fashioned hats, and 
well-darned hose; her hands will be red, because she 
has been compelled to assist in the kitchen, and her 
fingers will come through the ends of her well-mended 
gloves. You like pretty things — delicate laces — silk 
stockings — ruffled skirts, and the like. You will get 


184 


angele’s fortune. 


to look on Ang^le as ugly, when you see her go out in 
the guise I have described, and you will begin to notice 
wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and about her eyes. 
You will say : “ Bless me, how old she is getting ! ” 
You will wonder that you did not take my advice. 
Break with her now, my boy, it is the truest kindness 
to her, as well as to yourself.” 

During this cynical harangue, des Armoises frowned 
and grew very sober. La Genevraie understood him 
thoroughly, and all Rent’s passionate protestations had 
not thrown powder in his eyes. 

His idea of squalid poverty was to des Armoises the 
most revolting in the world. 

“I cannot break with her,” he murmured, slowly, 
“ both honor and delicacy forbid my doing so.” 

La Genevraie looked at him out of the corner of his 
eyes. 

“Ah!” he thought, “you have begun to talk of 
duty. We are getting on pretty well.” 

“ I do not exactly understand,” he said, aloud. > 

Ren^ said a few words in a low voice. 

La Genevraie shrugged his shoulders. 

“ If you are right,” he said, “ the whole affair can 
be settled on a money basis. The mother is queer — 
the daughter queerer — for you know as well as I, that 
Angele is not altogether right in her head. That affair 
of La Salp4 trier e showed that, and you must not allow 
yourself to be entangled in these spiders’ webs.” 

Ren^ bit his lips. A faint remark of generosity and 


angele’s fortune. 


185 


passion protested and revolted, still La Genevraie felt 
that the entering wedge was there. 

“ Come,” he said, “ you can think this over at home. 
Night brings counsel. Dine with me, and then we will 
see some pleasant people.” 

He hailed a carriage, and he and Ren^ got into it. 

“ Ah ! ” thought the journalist, eyeing his compan- 
ion, “you talk of Love, Faith and Loyalty! You do 
not even know the meaning of the words. You are all 
aU alike — Selfish! Selfish!” 


186 


angele’s foktune. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A FATAL BLOW. 

I NSTEAD of returning to the cottage that evening, 
Rend wrote to Angele, that he was detained in 
Paris by urgent business, and he remained there four 
whole days. After this idyl — this month of seclusion 
in the country, he found a novel flavor in the excite- 
ments of Paris. 

One morning, however, as it rained, he remembered 
Angdle, and concluded to go and see how she had borne 
his absence. The nearer he got to her, the more repent- 
ant and compassionate he became. He was a little 
troubled, however, as to what explanation he should 
offer. He wondered how he should answer the ques- 
tions she would ask, and finally his compassionate mood 
changed to one of intense irritation. 

“ Upon my word,” he said, “ La Genevraie was right, 
the chain begins to be heavy already.” 

By this time Rene was midway in the forest path. 
Through the fog he caught sight of a tall figure ap- 
proaching. 

“ Is that you, Joseph? ” cried the poet. 

“ Yes, it is,” said Toussaint. 

“What the deuce are you doing here, wandering 
about like a ghost ? ” 


angele’s fortune.. 187 

“ I was thinking,” said Joseph, “of the short dura- 
tion of things. A month ago, all the cherry trees were 
white with blossoms, and now they are withered and 
scattered, the nightingales are heard no more, and all 
the birds are silent, except the finches in the hedge ; they 
keep up their shrill staccato cries.” 

“ Is that a parable ? ” asked Ren^, in a sarcastic, but 
slightly embarrassed tone. 

“ Perhaps. But listen, des Armoises, I want to say 
something to you — something which has burned on 
my lips for days — and as we are alone now, this is my 
time.” 

He hesitated, and then fixing his honest eyes on the 
poet, he said : 

“ Ang^le S^ndchal loves you ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” and Ren^ lifted his eyebrows 
with an air of cold surprise. 

“Angele loves you passionately,” repeated Joseph, 
not in the least disconcerted. “ I know this, so do not 
deny it.” 

“ W ell, and what then ? ” 

“ And do you love her ? 

“ My dear fellow ! ” exclaimed the poet, impatiently, 
“ if a man has a chance of pleasing a girl as pretty as 
Angele, he must be as simple as the virtuous Israelite 
whose name you bear, not to avail himself of it.” 

Toussaint shook his head. The evening before, he 
had seen Ren4 at a concert with two artists, and two or 
three conspicuous beauties, and the good fellow was 


188 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


not pleased. He thought that Ren4 could not be very 
much in earnest if he found any amusement in such 
companionship. 

“ Do you love her,” he continued, “ as a man ought 
to love a woman whom he wishes to make his wife ? ” 
“Upon my word,” cried Ren^, angrily, “it strikes 
me that you are going a little too far ! What is the 
meaning of all these questions ? Is it to amuse yourself 
at my expense, or are you fulfilling a commission ? ” 
Joseph laid his hand gravely and affectionately, on 
his friend’s arm. 

“ Do not lose your temper. I am not executing any 
commission, and I am not actuated by curiosity. If I 
speak to you in this way, it is because of our old friend- 
ship at Bay. It is because you once extended your 
hand, and said to me, ‘ let us be friends ; ’ and because 
I believe myself never to have forfeited my claim to 
that friendship. It is because of my warm admiration 
for you as a man, and an artist, that I venture to say to 
you, if you love Angele, you must marry her ! ” 

He was much agitated, and Ren4, moved by the tone 
of his companion’s voice, turned his eyes away and 
seemed ill at ease. He struggled with his emotion. 

“My dear Joseph,” he said, “your advice shows the 
goodness of your heart. I do certainly love Angele, 
and would gladly make all and every sacrifice for her, 
but you raise a most complicated question. In your 
honest, quiet life, you see none of the impossibilities 
which start up like weeds and thorns, around this 


angele’s fortune. 


189 


marriage. My mother’s obstinate resistance, the preju- 
dices of society — of the world in which we live — the 
precarious condition of my finances — ” 

“ And these are the things, then, which deter you ? ” 
interrupted Toussaint, sadly and indignantly. “ I am 
as poor as you, and I love my family quite as well as 
you do, but, if this young creature had given me her 
heart, I should have carried her off to Albestroff in tri- 
umph. I should have shown her to my ten brothers 
and sisters, and said : 

“ This is my wife ! If you love me, you must love 
her ! As to money, I would gave gained it by the 
sweat of my brow. Can it be possible that you, with 
your youth and your talents, are afraid to run the risk 
of marrying a woman who adores you ? ” 

“ Bless my soul ! ” exclaimed des Armoises, “ you 
talk as if a man’s mind were a roll of ribbon, where 
yard after yard could be measured off to order! I 
cannot write in any such way, I tell you ; I am not a 
mere machine. I must have entire liberty of mind 
and body for any work that is worthy of my name and 
time ; marriage, therefore, seems to me a most danger- 
ous experiment for a true artist.” 

“ Your words only apply to a marriage without love. 
Listen to me a moment more, des Armoises! In Art 
there must be Faith, and Love is Faith ! That poet,” 
cried Toussaint, eager to convince this man, who had 
robbed him of his only treasure, and now stood cold 
and unmoved before it — “that poet who brings tears 


190 


angele’s fortune. 


to our eyes when we read his words in solitude — that 
poet has true genius, and the talisman that has unsealed 
his lips, love alone can have given him. How happy 
those are, who love and are beloved ! ” he continued, and 
in a choked voice, said — “Marry AngMe ! ” 

Rend was cutting off the clover blossoms with angry 
movements of his cane. 

“ You are right, perhaps,” he replied, in a constrained 
voice, “ but I fancy you would see things differently, if 
you were in my place.” 

“ If I were in your place ! ” Toussaint could say no 
more, emotion overpowered him. 

Des Armoises looked round at his friend in astonish- 
ment, but on seeing his face, he realized all that was 
passing in the poor fellow’s mind. 

He turned away his head, and gnawed his moustache 
a moment, and then said : 

“This is neither the time nor the place, to discuss 
this question. I must see AngMe and talk with her. 
Good morning ! ” 

“Good morning,” repeated Toussaint, in a tone of 
utter discouragement, which expressed more clearly 
than any words could have done, how little he felt him- 
self to have gained by this conversation with Ren4. 

Des Armoises hurried on, displeased with himself, 
and excessively indignant at Joseph’s presumption in 
meddling in his affairs. Notwithstanding all the young 
man’s protestations, he was convinced that Angele or 
her mother had induced him to ask these questions. 


angele’s foetune. 


191 


This belief was a eonvenient excuse for him, and in his 
eyes justified all his annoyance, and, in fact, made him 
feel that he was the injured party. 

Angele was alone in the cottage. Madame S^n^chal 
had taken flight to Paris again, and would not return 
until the next day. Although unhappy at Rent’s ab- 
sence, she was not alarmed, as his note had reassured 
her. Besides, she was never exacting toward her poet. 
She said to herself that a man like him, could not 
remain in the seclusion of the country, far from all 
literary associations, and she reproached herself for 
having made already too great demands on his time. 
Her position toward Ren^ did not fill her with shame 
or misgiving. The shallow education she had received 
— her mother’s rambling talk, culled from her novels — 
her superstitious belief in luck, and in the fortune told 
by the cards — had all prepared her to receive the les- 
sons taught by the associations in the Salle Corneille. 
These, and her natural levity and wilfulness all acted 
together, and the result was such as our readers have 
seen and suspected. 

Angele cared little for the opinion of others. Rent’s 
love fell like a magnificent theatrical curtain between 
herself and the world. The only thing that really dis- 
turbed her was, lest her health should prevent her debut 
in the autumn. She was agitated, nervous, but not 
frightened. She was absorbed in these thoughts while, 
with old gloves on her pretty hands to shield them from 
the briers, she, armed with a pair of scissors, went down 


192 


angele’s fortune. 


the garden walk to cut her roses. The sun had not 
quite conquered the clouds, but an occasional gleam 
would kindle into brilliancy each drop on the leaves, 
which were greener and fresher from the rain. 

Summer flowers bloomed on either side as she walked. 
Crimson carnations, purple phloxes, tall, stately holly- 
hocks, and a wealth of roses. Thousands of bees 
darted about, and the cherry trees were heavy with 
their scarlet fruit. This abundant vegetation, this pro- 
fusion of glowing colors, were in unison with the abun- 
dant harvest of love in the girl’s heart. 

When she saw Ren^, she threw down her scissors, 
pulled off her gloves, and ran to meet him. Then, as 
she saw the cloud on his brow, she drew back sud- 
denly. 

“ What is it ? ” she asked, fearfully. “ Come in ; my 
mother is away, and you can talk freely.” 

Without a word, he walked straight to the dining- 
room, she, pale and trembling, following him up the 
narrow garden path. 

When they stood facing each other, with the door 
closed, he said abruptly — 

“I have just seen Joseph, who has preached nje a 
long sermon, to prove that I ought to marry you at 
once. Is it your mother who selected him as ambassa- 
dor, or did the idea come from yourself? ” 

She uttered an exclamation of indignant surprise. 

“ I can understand,” continued Des Armoises, “ how 
these ideas may be in your own mind, but I confess 


angele’s fortune. 193 

that I question the propriety of discussing them with 
strangers — ” 

“ Joseph has spoken falsely ! ” cried AngMe. “ Neither 
my mother nor myself have seen him for a fortnight. 
It is a pure invention of his — ” 

“ He did not use your name,” replied Ren^, whose 
heart softened on seeing Angle’s emotion. “ It was my 
own inference. I took it for granted that he must come 
from your mother or yourself.” 

“ And could you really, Ren^,” she answered, in a 
tone of tender reproach, “ believe me capable of author- 
izing such a step ? ” 

“ Good Heavens ! child, the supposition was a very 
natural one ! Our position is totally false. Would it 
not be perfectly right for you to attempt to make it 
right in the eyes of the world.” 

“ Ah ! what is the world to me ! My world is you ! 
If you love me, I care not what other people think of 
me. I can belong to you no more after we have been 
before the Mayor than I do to-day, and I do not thank 
Toussaint for interfering in my matters, or for mention- 
ing my name to you in any way.” 

He interrupted her hastily. “ I came to see you to- 
day, Angele, to tell you that there is trouble in store 
for us. My mother has heard of you and of this cottage, 
and I know that she will do her best to separate us.” 

“ Ah ! ” she cried, in terror “ what can she do ? You 
frighten me — ” 

12 


194 


angele’s fortune. 


He drew the girl toward liim, realizing at last how 
unnecessarily cruel he had been toward her. 

“Dearest,” he murmured, “do not be troubled. 
Whatever happens — come what will — my love will be 
the same. I feel myself capable of any sacrifice for 
your sake.” 

In his unconscious egotism he fancied himself quite 
magnanimous as he uttered these words, and did not 
suspect that they enlarged Ang^le’s wound, instead of 
healing it. He talked on in this strain for some time, 
interlarding his protestations of resignation and self- 
abnegation with caresses. 

“I know what duty is,” he said, with a smile, 
“ although I am a poet, and I can fulfil it, no matter at 
what cost. My mother may utter whatever threats she 
chooses ; I will not yield. It will be pretty hard though, 
as she holds the purse-strings, and will seek to reduce 
the garrison by force. She knows my love of ease, and 
she thinks me incapable of roughing it, but she will lose 
her time.” 

He kissed her hands gayly, and a faint smile curved 
her pale lips. Far from reassuring her, every word he 
uttered filled her with consternation, and showed her 
a desolate future, of which hitherto she had never 
dreamed. She saw that in his heart, Ren4 regarded 
their love as one of the greatest misfortunes which 
could come to him. 

He did his best to seem gay, courageous and indif- 
ferent, and his forced gayety struck her as the merest 
bravado. 


angele’s fortune. 


195 


“We shall be miserably poor ! ” he cried. “Pshaw ! 
we shall learn not to mind it. I shall not be able to 
give you beautiful toilettes, but then, after all, silks 
don’t make happiness. We must live in the attic and 
cook our own dinners. When we go into the country 
on Sundays, it must be third class, and we can carry a 
basket of provisions to eat on the grass.” 

His jests had an uncomfortable tone of bitterness, 
and cut AngMe to the heart ; the little nervous laugh 
with which he enumerated all these prosaic details 
reminded one of a child, who is trying to make up his 
mind to swallow some bitter medicine, and whose smile 
suddenly terminates in bitter loathing. 

Angele, sitting near the window, silent and motion- 
less, listened to the cruel words, which fell, one after 
the other, on her heart, like the blows of a sacrilegious 
hammer on a consecrated statue. She felt the keenest 
anguish, mingled with pity and tenderness. One by 
one, each illusion took flight, with a melancholy rush of 
wings, and she saw the ghastly truth in its naked 
rigidity. This man, whom she adored, would be miser- 
able on her account. This love, which to her was bliss 
and ecstasy, would be to him a disaster and a fall. She 
dreamed of him as a God, and she it was, who would 
dethrone him. She turned her face toward the garden 
to hide her feelings, and, with her head leaning against 
the casement, listened to the slow dropping of her tears 
on the clustering leaves. 

“ Why do you say nothing?” exclaimed Des Armoises 


196 


angele's fortune. 


at last, astonished at her silence. He went to her, 
took her face in both hands, and turned it round until 
he could see into her eyes. 

“Tears, sweetheart! Do not be troubled. I will 
arrange things in such a way, that we shall not suffer 
too unbearably from this disgusting poverty. I will 
work. I will write rhymes to suit all tastes and all 
classes. I will besiege the editorial offices, and beleaguer 
the newspapers, and it will be a strange thing, if we do 
not conquer fortune.” 

She rose from her chair. Her resolution was taken, 
as she swallowed her tears and went to his side. She 
put her arm around his neck, and pressed her lips to his, 
in a kiss that was both sad and passionate, while it was 
long and solemn as an adieu. 

“ How cold your hands are,” he said, with a light 
shiver, as they touched his cheek. 

“ I do not feel quite well,” she answered. “ I got my 
feet wet in the garden. I will go off to bed early, and 
you will say good«by now.” 

He too was feverish and fatigued. His drawn fea- 
tures showed how irksome had been the task he imposed 
on himself, and he snatched with eager haste at this 
excuse for cutting short a most painful interview. 

“Rest well, dear,” he replied, “and do not worry 
yourself, I will be back to-morrow.” 

She hesitated. 

“No,” she murmured, “not to-morrow — it is Satur- 
day, and the house will be all upside down.” 


angele’s foe tune. 


197 


“True,” he answered, “and besides, I shall be 
detained in Paris to-morrow — it is my mother’s birth- 
day — Monday, then ! But if you are not well, you will 
write to me ? ” 

“ Yes, I will write.” 

They were at the gate of the orchard ; over the stone 
wall clambered the roses, their fragrant cups heavy with 
rain drops. 

“Before you go,” she said, “gather some flowers for 
my vases.” 

He obeyed, broke off a long branch set thick with 
buds and blossoms, and handed it to her. She buried 
her face among them, and then suddenly snatched the 
poet’s hand, and pressed it to her lips. 

“ Good night ! ” said des Armoises, passing through 
the gate. 

“ Farewell, my beloved ! ” she murmured in a voice 
so low that he did not hear it. He was far down the 
road before she left the gate; when he had passed 
beyond her sight, she turned and rushed to her little 
room where she stifled her sobs among the pillows. 

Suddenly she started up. She dragged a great trunk 
into the centre of the room : into this she put all her 
possessions. She emptied th'e wardrobe, and the 
bureau, having made up her mind to depart at once 
from this house where she had been so happy. In two 
hours more she might be in Paris, and from thence she 
would go to some place where Ren^ could never find 
her. She would not accept the sacrifices, which in her 


198 


angele’s foetune. 


simplicity, slie thought him entirely ready to endure for 
her sake. No one should ever say, that she had marred 
his life and extinguished his genius. 

She found a bitter pleasure in this abnegation, and 
thought of the reward she should one day receive, when 
in her obscurity, she should learn of his fame and 
triumph. 

When the trunk was closed, she sent it down stairs 
by the one servant of the house, who was then com- 
missioned to find a peasant to take it on his wagon to 
the station. 

Angele, now alone in the house, went through each 
room, and finally throwing a shawl over her shoulders, 
and taking the roses in her hand which Rend had 
gathered, the girl went out through the orchard. The 
branches over her head were dripping with rain, which 
fell like tears upon her. 

The sun was setting in great clouds of gold, while 
above, the sky was dull and gray. Angdle turned once 
more to look at the dear cottage, the honeysuckles, and 
the raspberries, the orchard full of flowers and fruit — 
at all this lost Paradise ; then feeling that she could 
bear it no longer, she tore herself away. The door 
closed behind her, and slowly she passed through the 
wood where the nightingales had ceased to sing, with 
the red roses pressed against her lips to keep back the 
bitter sobs that choked her. 


angele’s fortune. 


199 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AN ENGAGEMENT. 

HAT on earth does this mean ? You here, at 



this hour ! ” and Madame S^n^chal looked 


first at Angele and then at the trunk, which the con- 
cierge had deposited in the anteroom. “ Why have you 
left V41zy? What has happened ? ” 

“Nothing,” answered her daughter, with a height- 
ened color. “ I was lonely there, and I came to find 
you, that is all. 

“ And how long do you wish to stay ? ” 

“ I do not mean to go back again ! Listen, mamma,” 
she continued, kissing her mother tenderly. “I have 
been thinking that we ought not to impose ourselves 
any longer on the hospitality that has been offered us. 
I am well now, and 1 ought to go to work. I am losing 
most precious time at V^lzy, and I want an engage- 
ment as soon as possible.” 

“As to that, you are right, for your talents ought 
not to be idle, and grow mouldy in the country. If 
Monsieur des Armoises loves you, he ought to come 
forward now and say so. At the same time Art claims 
you, and you woiffd l^ave no^ right to throw aside a 
brilliant future for love pf his handsome eyes ! ” 

Angdle tried to. sn^other her mother’s words with 
kisses. 


200 


angele’s fortune. 


“ He will not go to the cottage,” she said, with fever- 
ish haste, “until Monday, and in the meantime it is 
unnecessary that he should know my resolution. Now 
let us go to bed, for I am dead with sleep.” 

She put her roses in water, and shut herself into her 
little room, where she could weep her heart out, unmo- 
lested. She determined to seek, the very next day, an 
engagement which would take her far from Paris ; this 
was all she would ask. She fancied it would not be 
difficult to do this, as at the Salle Corneille, she often 
heard of agencies which existed for the especial purpose 
of sending actors and actresses to the provinces. 

In the morning Angdle breakfasted in silence by the 
side of her mother, who had not yet recovered from her 
astonishment, then she started forth on her mission. 
She did not care to go near Saint Felix, nor La Gene- 
vraie, who were both in the habit of seeing Ren^ con- 
stantly, as she wished to keep him in ignorance of 
her movements. She crossed the Luxembourg. Once 
on the Boulevard Saint Michel she entered an omnibus 
and went in it as far as the Porte Saint Martin. In 
this theatrical quarter, are gathered most of the indus- 
tries connected with dramatic Art, and she thought that 
here she should find what she wanted, or be told where 
to go to make application. 

As she walked slowly and sadly along, she felt a 
hand on her arm. Starting and looking up, she recog- 
nized a girl she had known at the Salle Corneille — 
Mademoiselle Sabine, who exclaimed : 


ANGELE S FOKTUNE. 


201 


“ It is an age since I saw you ! What on earth have 
you been doing, and where have you kept yourself?” 

In a very few words, Angele replied to these ques- 
tions, and told her what she now wanted. 

“ All right,” said the good-natured Sabine. “ I am 
on my way to the Agency now. Come with me, 
Massador will find precisely what you want.” 

She led the way to La Rue Sancry, and they entered 
a very filthy-looking courtyard ; crossing it by an alley 
that smelt very badly, they reached a muddy staircase, 
up which the two girls gingerly picked their way. On 
the third floor they saw a placard: 

“MASSADOR — THEATRICAL AGENCY.” 

“ This is the place ! ” cried Sabine, and unceremoni- 
ously pushing open the door, she introduced her friend 
to a long, narrow room — an anteroom, where a thin, 
old man, buttoned up to the chin in a loose overcoat, 
was cleaning a lamp. 

“ Good-morning, Alexis,” cried Mademoiselle Sabine, 
who had the air of being thoroughly at home. “ Is 
Massador visible ? ” 

The man lifted his bald head, and answered in a 
timid tone, as he sought to pull his very short sleeves 
over his immense red hands : 

“ Monsieur Massador is in conference with an artist, 
at the present moment ; but would the ladies kindly go 
on to the reception room ? They would find a good 
many persons there.” 


202 


angele’s fortune. 


There were, indeed, many persons there, and a most 
motley crowd it was, too. Angdle, who for so many 
weeks, had seen nothing of actors, who — say what one 
pleases, are really a class by themselves — felt a vague 
discomfort and almost shock, at this interior — so 
suggestive of the shifts and poverty of dramatic 
Bohemianism. 

The walls of the room were covered with dirty, gray 
paper, and hung thick with photographs of men, of 
women, and of prodigal sons, in the costumes of their 
principal parts, inscribed under each with words of 
fulsome praise to their dear friend Massador. The 
furniture consisted of hair-cloth chairs, of an oak desk, 
and book-shelves, on which were huge volumes, bound 
in green ; these letters, printed on a white slip, pasted 
on their backs: 

First parts — Fathers — Young man of fashion — 
Tenors^ 

Seated on one of the chairs, with his feet drawn up 
to the highest rounds, with his elbows nearly even with 
his chin, sat a man with a most dismal air, listening to 
the energetic words of a saucy little woman, with close- 
cut hair, who affected masculine ways of speech and 
of gesture. 

On the other side of the room, sat a middle-aged 
woman, showily dressed in light green silk, to whom a 
man was exhibiting the contents of a basket of per- 
fumery, soaps and similar articles for the toilette. 


angele’s fortune. 203 


Massador’s clients looked at the new arrivals for a 
moment, then the young man with the perfumery went 
on with his gabhle, and the dismal youth shook his 
head reprovingly, at the short-haired young woman, 
who, as Angele entered the room, seated herself on the 
table and swung her feet ostentatiously. 

“ How wild you are, H^loise ! ” said the vender of 
small wares. 

“ You are a perfect bore, Catala,” answered H^loise, 
“ with your airs of propriety.” 

The person whom she called Catala, now turned to 
the lady in the green dress, with renewed offers of cold 
cream and of pearl powder. 

“ I never use them, sir,” she said. 

“When did you give them up?” asked H^loise, 
impertinently. 

“ I never use them, sir,” the woman replied, coldly. 

“ I believe you. You preferred yellow,” and Heloise 
shrieked with laughter at her own rude witticism. 

“ Laugh on ! laugh on ! ” answered her opponent, with 
grim forbearance. It will be a long time before you 
enjoy the success I had in Russia.” 

“ Ah ! in Russia ! ” cried Catala, opening his eyes with 
an affected air of surprise, and passing a white-beringed 
hand through his greasy curls. “ Russia is the country 
for artists like ourselves ! ” And he began to empty his 
basket at the feet of the lady, declaiming as he did so, 
in the tone of an exhibitor of a magic lantern : “ Who 
buys I who buys ! Black, white and red ! Let all take 


204 


angele’s fortune. 


tlieir choice ! Who buys ! who buys ! Let all who 
want rosy nails, white hands and black lashes, come to 
me, for I have them all here and at their service ! You 
have only to choose ! Young and old, brunettes and 
blondes, all have need of Catala ! ” 

These shrill tones rang through the room, and the 
man was droll, and his accent so absurdly grotesque, 
with its strong Southern twang, that Angdle, although 
little inclined to laugh, was obliged to smile. All she 
saw and heard, inspired her with the greatest possible 
repugnance. Once, even, she started to leave, but 
her companions held her back, telling her that the man 
she wanted to see, would be there presently. She seated 
herself again, with sad resignation, and relapsed into 
thought. Soon she was far away from this dingy room 
and among the honeysuckles and roses of that little 
cottage at Vdlzy, where, only the evening before, she 
had been living in such sweet content. 

What a contrast between the fresh, delicious atmos- 
phere of those odorous woods and this place, the haunt of 
second-rate actors ! How disgusted Ren^ would be at the 
companionship she had wilfully sought ! Tears rushed 
to her eyes, as she thought over all the events of the 
past six months, and then she went further back to her 
childhood. She thought of herself as a child, seated in 
one of those cushioned chairs in that hall which served 
as a theatre in the little town of Bay. She remembered 
how she had held her breath, in admiring awe, as she 
watched these actors, who were as so many kings in her 


angele’s fortune. 


205 


eyes, and who differed in no degree from these miser- 
able, shabby-looking fellows, whom she now saw argu- 
ing and disputing in her presence, the mingled odors 
of tobacco and onions about their clothing sickening 
and disgusting her. 

Meanwhile Catala had grown tired of talking. Leav- 
ing his wares at the feet of the unmoved lady in green, 
he wiped his brow and declared that a little beer would 
not come amiss. 

“Will these ladies have some?” he asked, with an 
ingratiating bow to Angele and Sabine, who thanked 
him, but declined his obliging offer. 

“ Let them alone,” said H^loise, in a loud whisper. 
“ They are putting on great airs of style, but they mean 
to deprive us of our bread, all the same.” 

Angele colored, and, to her great joy, Massador at 
that moment appeared, escorting a young girl, whose 
sentimental air and affected, gliding step excited a 
universal sniff of derision. 

Massador showed her through the room, opened the 
opposite door, and then came back, with the manner of 
a man overwhelmed with business. He was a man of 
fifty, pale, but stout. His scanty, sleek, yellow hair 
made him look like a canary just coming out of its bath. 
His dress was rigidly correct, as an impressario, in 
black. His low-cut vest showed a shirt front, which, 
however, was not immaculate, as two or three spots 
of coffee tarnished its whiteness. 

He was soon surrounded. 


206 


angele’s fortune. 


“ Massador ! ” cried one, “ Have you nothing for 
me?” 

“ Massador ! I am first on your list.” 

“ Massador ! When shall I sign this engagement ? ” 

“ Have patience, my children,” he said, with a ma- 
jestic gesture. “ I must just say a word to these 
ladies.” 

And he advanced gallantly toward AngMe and her 
companion. 

“ Precisely ! ” cried Catala, bowing profoundly. 
“ Beauty before merit I ” 

Massador begged the two young women to resume 
their seats, and, bringing up a chair, planted it in front 
of them, saying to Mademoiselle Sabine, as he did so : 

“ Your little affair is prosperously concluded. You 
will go to Tours to sing in Opera Bouffe. Your salary 
will not be large, but it is better than nothing.” 

Then, turning to Ang^le, he asked : 

“ And what can I do for you, my child ? ” 

“ My friend is one of the pupils of a man who turns 
out only artists,” said Sabine, authoritatively — “of 
Saint Felix, I mean.” And then, seeing that Ang^le 
was confused and did not know what to say, she went 
on to explain, that Mademoiselle S^n^chal wished to 
make her d^but in the provinces. 

“ Ah ! indeed ! Mademoiselle is a new recruit, then? 
And a pretty one, too ! Charming ! Most charming ! ” 
And the impressario smiled insinuatingly. 

“ Now, just look at that, H^loise,” muttered Catala. 


angele’s fortune. 


207 


“ There is an example of the influence of dress on the 
human heart. Massador is wonderfully gracious to the 
blue-eyed lady. Do you know her ? ” 

“No. What do you think she plays? I bet she 
wants the part of a Fairy Queen in a pantomime.” 

“No! no! she aims higher that that. Look at her 
dress. It is silk, my dear, and good silk, too,” added 
Catala. 

“ It is always the way,” answered H^loise, in a loud, 
clear voice. “ Massador never takes notice of women 
who are not well dressed ! If I had plenty to eat and 
drink and fine clothes to wear, I would not try and 
take the bread out of other persons’ mouths ! ” And 
she eyed Angele angrily. 

Angele heard, and the color rushed to her cheeks. 
As to Massador, he turned a deaf ear, and continued 
his compliments. 

“ Which do you prefer. Tragedy or Comedy ? With 
your pretty face, you ought to please the public. I 
have a good thing for you, but unfortunately it is out 
of Paris.” 

“ Which would suit me perfectly,” answered Angdle. 
“ I am ready to go anywhere.” 

“Then come into my office, and we will sign an 
engagement.” 

He led the way to his private room, and taking up 
his pen, he said : 

“You will go to Li^ge. Your salary will be three 
hundred francs per month, and yours will be the 


208 


angele’s fortune. 


first role in the company. It is a magnificent position, 
although there may be a little too much tobacco smoke 
for you at first. I hope your voice is a very powerful 
one, for it will take good lungs to be heard above the 
rattle of glasses and the buzz of conversation.” 

“ Do you mean that it is not a theatre ? ” asked 
Angele, somewhat startled. 

“It is not a theatre, exactly — it is a new combina- 
tion — a place where the public can obtain food for the 
body, and food for the mind at the same time — and it 
promises to be a paying enterprise.” 

Angle’s head drooped, and tears filled her eyes. To 
have dreamed of the Theatre Fran^ais, and then to fall 
to a Cafd Concert. But she wished to leave Paris, and 
there was no other path open to her. She signed the 
engagement. 

“You will thank me later,” said Massador, gallantly 
kissing her hand. “ There is no time to lose. They 
are very impatient to open their house, and you must 
make aU your preparations without the slightest 
delay.” 

They returned to the waiting-room, where Massador 
instantly fell a victim to the lady in green. H^loise, 
still swinging her heels on the table, was eating cher- 
ries, and throwing the stones all round the room ; her 
companion looked more dreary than ever. 

Catala went to meet Mademoiselle Sabine. 

“Have you signed your engagement?” he asked. 
“ Good luck to you, then. Find me some customers at 


angele’s foktune. 


209 


Tours, will you? You know that I can send my goods 
by mail, and I will send you a little package gratis.” 
Then bending very low before Ang^le, he murmured : 

“ Duchess ! Your humble servant,” and he opened 
the door into the anteroom, where the old man had 
finished the cleaning of his lamp, and was now absorbed 
in an old book. 

When they were in the street Ang^le stopped to read 
the terms of her engagement again. 

“ How queer ! ” exclaimed Mademoiselle Sabine. 

“ Yes,” answered the poor girl, “ it is queer, but more 
sad than queer.” 

13 


210 


angele’s foktune. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AWAKENING. 

M onday morning the bright sun woke Ren^ des 
Armoises. He rose and dressed slowly, with rather 
a sinking of the heart, as he remembered that he had 
promised to go to Yelzy that day. His letters came 
just as he was ready to go. He took one up carelessly, 
but suddenly recognizing the writing, he tore it open — 
and read as follows : 


Sunday Evening. ^ 
“ Deaely Beloved ; — I signed an engagement 
yesterday, which will take me far away, and I go 
immediately, but not before I write you these few 
lines of farewell. Be assured that while I disappear 
thus voluntarily, out of your life, you continue to 
be the soul of mine. I leave you suddenly, but with 
no feeling of bitterness or resentment in my heart — no 
— I carry away with me only the most loving recollect 
tion of you and your goodness. The dear moments I 
owe to you. Those happy days at V^lzy, I can never 
forget. I shall bless them until my lips are cold in 
death, but I have thought over our last conversation, 
and have begun to realize how much you will be com- 
pelled to sacrifice on my account, and I cannot allow 
it. You must run no such risks. 


angele’s fortune. 


211 


“I wish you, my beloved — my poet, to become the 
great artist of which we have dreamed. To do this, no 
prosaic necessities, no sordid cares must harass your 
mind. You must have time to dream, to work, and to 
compose. I wish you all sorts of triumphs and happi- 
ness, success and glory. You know that I am very 
ambitious for you. 

“ Have no uneasiness on my account. I am young 
and brave, and I shall get on. Fortune will come to 
my assistance, I am sure. 

“ Adieu. I take with me the roses you gathered for 
me at V elzy — they have not yet lost their sweetness, 
my beloved ! Let me call you this again — my beloved ! 
Farewell. I love you, and I leave you — but your 
memory will be enshrined within my heart. In return, 
think sometimes of your poor little Ang^le.” 

Rent’s lips quivered, and he felt a pang of remorse. 
He rushed down the stairs, and in less than two hours 
he stood before the door of the cottage, at V^lzy. 
The doors and windows were wide open, and a great 
brushing and dusting was going on under the super- 
vision of Madame Sendchal, who with her sleeves rolled 
up also lent a helping hand. 

On Rent’s appearance she smoothes her hair quickly, 
and assumed a most dignified air. 

“ Where is Angele ? ” cried Rene, impetuously. “ Why 
did you let her go ? ” 

“Where she is, I shall not tell you,” answered the 
good lady, compressing her lips. “ As to your second 


212 


angele’s fortune. 


question, you will excuse me, if I say that it is really 
very foolish. Angele is old enough to do what she 
pleases, and she has only exercised the right which I 
am perfectly willing to concede to her ! But were we 
to go to the bottom of things, we should find out, I 
fancy, that it is not I who should be reproached for her 
departure.” 

“Do you mean that she is gone for good?” asked 
Des Armoises, in considerable agitation. 

“ Yes, she is gone for good, and if we talk about it 
steadily for the next twenty-four hours,” said Madame 
Sdn^chal, wdping away the tears, “it won’t alter the 
facts nor bring her back! She has gone away, poor 
child I because she was not appreciated here. To tell 
the truth, they were jealous of her talent. People 
thought when she made her d^but, that there would be a 
revolution in Art, — they were afraid of her. There- 
fore, I understand it all. Now that it is too late, the 
Parisians will realize that they have bitten off their 
own noses.” 

“ Where is she ? I must know.” 

“Well! you will not know then, for AngMe made 
me swear not to tell you. She was right to go, my 
daughter is a good girl, she was not willing to accept a 
hospitality which she knew was compromising her name 
and her future. This is enough! You understand, 
and now have the goodness to tell me, to whom I shall 
give the keys when I have finished putting this cottage 
in order ? ” 


angele’s fortune. 


213 


Ren^ then changed his tone : he became very hum- 
ble, and almost knelt at the knees of the old lady, to 
implore her to tell him where Angele had fled, but 
Madame S^ndchal was immovable. Before going, 
Angele had made her swear solemnly to keep her 
secret, and not to give to a human being, not even 
Joseph, the name of the town to which she was going. 
She was firm, and Des Armoises returned to Paris, 
as ignorant as he left it. 

He went to find Joseph at once, whom he hoped to 
find less mysterious, but the astonishment of his friend 
was too sincere to be mistaken. 

Toussaint knew no more than he did himself, and 
Ren^ entered the presence of his mother in bitter des- 
pair. Madame des Armoises at once saw that some 
great crisis had taken place which probably was the 
work of La Genevraie. She had little difficulty, as 
reticence was by no means one of the qualities of the 
young man, in making him give an account of Angele’s 
abrupt departure. Ren^, in fact, was impatient to 
speak, and he assailed his mother with the bitterest 
reproaches, although he had little idea how well home 
they struck ; he builded better than he knew, in fact, 
when he told her that she was the indirect cause of 
what had happened. She, like the wise woman she 
was, allowed him to talk in this way for several days 
in succession, listened to him with an air of commiser- 
ation and sympathy; then, one morning, seeing him 
more restless and agitated than usual, she ventured to 
speak to him. 


214 axgele’s fortune. 

“My dear son,” she said, “here is a card from the 
Manager, requesting you to call in regard to the 
rehearsals.” 

Ren^ threw the card carelessly on his desk, and stood 
moodily looking from the window. 

“ It is foolish,” she said quietly, “ to give way thus. 
I, of course, understand your grief, and respect it to a 
certain extent, although it is caused by a person who 
does not deserve your love.” 

He turned quickly and looked at his mother with an 
air of intense irritation. 

“ I mean what I say,” she continued gravely. “ If 
this woman went away in this abrupt fashion, it cer- 
tainly proves that her affection for you, was not very 
deep.” 

She went out, having let fly this first arrow, slender 
and sharp as a needle. She left it quivering in the 
flesh, ready to do its appointed task. Ren4 walked up 
and down his room and then hastily left the house, and 
went to the Theatre, where he soon became interested 
in a scene that hung fire. He worked over it all day 
and then brought it home, astonished to find that his 
personal sorrows, losses and grievances, were lost in 
those of his heroes — that the bringing out of his char- 
acters — the smoothness of his versification, the eager 
search for word or phrase which should most aptly 
express his meaning, had absorbed his thoughts all 
day. 

His mother came into his study. 


angele’s fortune. 


215 


“ I am going to Madame Boissimon’s,” she said. “ I 
promised her that you would go with me, but I leave 
you to the indulgence of your grief. There will be a 
great many people there, and the story of this foolish 
affair, has in some way got noised about ; your melan- 
choly face will be noticed, and people will talk ; and as 
it is not worth while to make yourself food for their 
gossip, I think you had best stay at home.” 

This was quite enough to induce Rend to go out. 
He was keenly susceptible to ridicule. The fear of 
passing for a languishing Werther surmounted his re- 
luctance, and he exclaimed as he threw off his dressing 
jacket: 

“ Wait for me I I will go with you.” 

Madame Boissimon’s Wednesdays were very bril- 
liant. Her husband’s high position in the Emperor’s 
household, brought under her roof a host of celebrities, 
— men of letters and women of the world. Madame des 
Armoises manoeuvred so well, that about the middle of 
the evening Rend was induced to recite some fragments 
of the drama which was soon to be produced. 

As much through bravado as through vanity, he 
threw himself with enthusiasm into this recitation, and 
his voice and intonation added fire to the sparkling 
verses. He was applauded, surrounded and caressed; 
Mademoiselle alone affected an utter indifference, which 
ended by piquing Rend. This young girl possessed the 
sang froid and experience of a coquette of thirty. She 
knew that in many respects poets and women are much 


216 


angele’s fortune. 


alike, and that the best way to subjugate them is to 
evince the most utter indifference toward them. 

While she feigned therefore not to notice Rend, she 
managed to be seated always within range of his vision, 
and with a thousand graceful, undulating movements of 
her pretty throat, and handsome head, crowned by 
blonde braids, she talked to her friends gayly and 
unconsciously. This succeeded. The poet, consider- 
bly amazed to find that she was perfectly uninterested 
in the display of his talents, finally accorded to Marthe 
an attention which hitherto he had never condescended 
to show her. 

The next day he turned his steps to La Rue des 
Rennes, to ask if Madame Sdn^chal had heard any 
news from Ang^le, but when he reached the house he 
hesitated, and asked himself what sort of a figure he 
should make if he lost his temper in talking to the old 
lady, and turned abruptly on his heel, and went to 
the Theatre. From this day forth he resumed all the 
habits which he had abandoned in early spring. 

It was like the gradual creeping up of the tide on the 
beach. The submersion of his love was slowly but 
surely accomplished, until all had disappeared under 
the smooth surface of the deep sea. 

Ren^ asked his mother several questions in regard to 
Marthe, and Madame des Armoises had a good deal to 
say of the girl’s beauty, as well as of the influence of 
her father. 

Monsieur de Boissimon was much in favor at the 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


217 


Tuilleries, since the Plebiscite of May, 1870, had given 
to the Empire a slight return of former popularity. 
He was spoken of as a future Minister. Any man of 
letters, it was said, who should become his son-in-law, 
would find an easy path to glory. Every stage would 
quarrel for the presentation of his pieces, and at the 
time we write, the stage alone put money in the pock- 
ets of literary men. 

Again did La Genevraie, prompted by Madame des 
Armoises, appear on the scene. He urged Ren4 to ask 
for Marthe de Boissimon’s hand, in due form and at 
once. The young man fought shy for a time. He was 
disinclined to matrimony, he said, and thought himself 
too young to put his head in the noose. 

“ Come ! come ! ” cried La Genevraie, “ marriage is 
nowadays a very elastic chain — it can be shortened or 
lengthened ad libitum. You will go far, my boy, before 
you can find so pretty a creature as Marthe, or a 
father-in-law with the influence of Boissimon. For 
heaven’s sake, do not waste any time now, but bestir 
yourself ! ” 

“ I am not only reluctant to marry,” said the poet, 
“ but I feel certain scruples in regard to Angele. If 
she were to have a child, it would be my duty to adopt 
it; and how would this duty fit in with these others, 
which you are now begging me to assume ? ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried Mephistophiles. “ Your Ari- 
adne is undoubtedly consoling herself with some 
Theseus of the boards. Do not be childish, and cease 


218 


angele’s foktune. 


to handle the affairs of life timidly and with gloved 
hands ! Grasp them boldly, and let the thorns do their 
worst ! ” 

And the tempter departed, wdth these words, leaving 
Ren4 in a fit of rage, at the mere idea of having been 
trifled with. Then came his mother, with her solicita- 
tions and arguments, and finally, in utter weariness of 
flesh and spirits, he said yes. As soon as Madame des 
Armoises had obtained this consent from her son, she 
took speedy measures, for she was of the opinion, that 
marriages, like certain delicate dishes, should not be 
allowed time to cool. The demand was made at once, 
and Mademoiselle Marthe, much flattered by being the 
choice of this handsome poet, was quite ready to give 
her consent. Her father, who had no dowry to give 
her, and who was somewhat anxious in regard to her 
future, eagerly agreed. All the necessary steps were 
taken with all possible speed, and one day, Joseph 
Toussaint received a printed letter, announcing the 
marriage of Xavier-R,en4 des Armoises and of Made- 
moiselle Marthe de Boissimon, with an invitation to 
L’Eglise Saint-Roch, where the ceremony would be 
performed, by his Eminence, the Cardinal. 

The poor fellow could not believe his eyes, and a 
ringing oath, quite befitting a cavalry officer, fell from 
his pacific lips. 

The very day of the celebration of the marriage at 
the Mayoralty, the news of the declaration of the war 
with Prussia, was spread throughout Paris. We all 


angele’s fortune. 219 

remember, with what blind and reckless enthusiasm 
this terrible announcement was received. The whole 
Parisian populace seemed to have lost their heads, and 
to be absolutely intoxicated with drunken, unreasoning 

joy. 

The Rhin Allemand was played at the theatres. At 
the concerts, on the Champs Elyse^s, they played a 
march, called the “ Entre^ k Berlin.” Several journals 
published, with great flourish of trumpets, an ode, 
signed Ren^ des Armoises, which bristled with threats 
and belligerent sentences. 

Even the peaceful Senator, whose discourses Tous- 
saint prepared, was seized with martial fire. He 
meditated a pamphlet, on the annexation of the Rhen- 
ish provinces, and J oseph threw aWay his time, when he 
tried to open his eyes. 

“ You know nothing of these Germans,” said the 
young man. “ I have seen much of them, and have 
studied them thoroughly. I know that they hate us. 
For thirty years, they have been jealous of us, and have 
been, with the slow perseverance — which is a part of 
their character — making their preparations to attack 
us. German thunder, as Henri Heine says, moves 
slowly, but when it does burst, it is terrible ! Alas ! ” 
added Joseph, thinking of his home at Albestroft, 
“ who can say what will become of my little nest ? ” 

Amid this chorus of frivolous bravados and senseless 
songs of victory, came the news of the defeat of 
Wessembourg, sounding over the land like a dismal 


220 


angele’s fortune. 


tocsin of warning. It was invasion ! Unwilling as tlie 
French were to believe it, they were forced to recog- 
nize the truth. They had so long rocked themselves 
with the idea of a triumphal march into Berlin, that 
they lived in constant expectation, from hour to hour, 
of the intelligence of some glorious battle. The wisest 
heads were turned, and the deceived masses perceived 
on the horizon, the mirage of victory. 

On the afternoon of the 6th of August, the rumor 
spread that there had been indeed a battle, and a 
decisive victory. The windows and balconies blazed 
with color — an immense crowd filled the Boulevard 
des Italiens, singing and roaring like a tumultuous sea. 
All Paris was radiant; every face was smiling, and 
every hand met its neighbor’s in cordial and mutual 
congratulation. 

Two artists, from the opera, standing in an open 
carriage, started the Marsellaise, which was caught up 
and repeated b}^ thousands of enthusiastic voices. 

A golden sun, shining through rifts of heavy clouds, 
streamed at times over the tri-colored flags, floating 
from the windows, above the heads of this multitude. 

A sudden rush in the crowd, bore Toussaint along, 
and he found himself at the side of Rene des Armoises, 
who was gesticulating and talking. Joseph tried to 
avoid him, but the poet snatched his arm. 

“ Well, my boy,” he cried, “what do you say to this? 
We have trapped our German wolves! Twenty-five 
thousand men and the Royal Prince, prisoners of war. 
Heavens ! what a revenge ! ” 


angele’s foktune. 


221 


“ Are you sure ? ” murmured Joseph. 

“ Sure ! I have the intelligence from my father-in- 
law, who had just heard it at the War Office.” 

The crowd separated the friends. The poet waved 
his hat in the air, and the wind blowing his hair about 
his head, he sang at the top of his voice ; 

“ Amour sacre de la patrie, 

Conduis, sontiens, nos bras vengeurs ! ” 

He looked very handsome, and Joseph involuntarily 
thought of the first day, when they shook hands on the 
Plain, at Bay. He looked up at the sk}^ which, directly 
overhead, was black with clouds, and, notwithstanding 
the exuberant joy about him, and the wild acclamations, 
he felt his throat contract with a choking sob. 

The revulsion was not long in coming. The very 
next morning, the same couriers brought the intelligence 
of two bloody defeats. Each day now brought its 
melancholy tale of woe, of deceptions and despair. 
There were Gravelotte and Sainte-Prirat — the flight 
of the Emperor toward Chffions — the mad and useless 
march across the Argonnes — then Beaumont, then the 
disaster of Sedan. 

Joseph was heart-broken. He wished to do some- 
thing, and he was one of the first to enrol himself in the 
National Guard. He who had never in his life shoul- 
dered a gun, was now drilled every morning with his 
companions, in the Luxembourg. He had seen Ren^ 
once again, the evening of September 4th. That 


222 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


morning, the news had come of the capitulation of 
Sedan, and Joseph was returning to his lodgings at 
night, having been on duty all day with his battalion, 
when he met Rend, who was rushing along with hasty 
step and unseeing eye. 

“ It is all over ! ” said Toussaint, , “ the Republic is 
proclaimed ! ” 

“ Yes! ” cried Rend, “and a beautiful piece of work 
it is I In a week,” he added, furiously, “ the Prussians 
will be in Paris.” 

“ Paris will defend itself,” said Toussaint. “ The 
enemy will find the gates closed, and the cannon on the 
ramparts.” 

“A siege then? That would be indeed the finishing 
touch. When the Parisians find themselves deprived 
of their fresh fish for a week, they will rebel and open 
the gates themselves ! There will be foes within, as 
well as without ! You do not know the populace. 

Animal aux cent tites frivoles,^ 

“ France is a ruined country. Adieu to Art, to 
Mind, and to Beauty ! But I shall not wait for the 
pitiful denouement. In three days, I shall shake the 
dust of this city from my feet.” 

As to myself,” answered Joseph, “ I love Paris more 
than ever, since these dark days have come. I feel as 
mothers feel, who love their children best when they 
are ill.” 

“You stay here, then?” 


a^ngele's fortune. 


223 


“ Most assuredly ! ” 

“ Good luck to you, then ! ” cried Des Armoises. 
“ You will have a sweet time of it ! ” 

“I shall do my duty,” answered Toussaint, simply, 
with a severe look of reproach, from the eyes which 
were usually so gentle. 

The poet was somewhat abashed. 

“ There is nothing for me to do here,” he murmured. 
“I am not needed. Besides, did I wish to remain, I 
could not. The fall of the Empire has ruined my 
father-in-law. He is half craz3^ My mother and my 
wife are equally so ; they think of nothing but flight, 
and I cannot, with decency, abandon them. To-morrow, 
or the day after, we shall be at Brussels. Au revoir, 
Joseph ; may we meet soon under fairer skies.” 

“ Farewell ! ” said Toussaint, sadly. 

Two da^^s later, Ren^, with his wife, his mother, his 
wife’s parents, and a mountain of luggage, set out for 
Belgium. On the road, their train passed another, 
going toward Paris. This was crowded with young 
men and women — artists, who had been surprised by 
the war, amid their wanderings of pleasure and of 
study. They had loved Paris in its days of prosperity, 
and they did not choose to remain away, when adversity 
had overtaken it. 

They returned, therefore, to aid in its defence, and 
to love it in its poverty and destitution, and to eat the 
black bread of the Siege. 


224 


angele’s fortune. 


CHAPTER XV. 
desolation. 

B etween the Luxembourg and the Avenue de 
rObservatoire, some days after the investment, a 
company of the National Guard were being drilled. 
This company was made up of professors, artists and 
shopkeepers. In vain did these various physiognomies 
try to assume a military air. 

“ Attention ! ” cried the Sergeant, in a tone of com- 
mand. “ Shoulder arms ! Number five ! what are you 
doing with your left hand ? Keep your feet in line ! 

You move like a clown ” 

The unfortunate number five, to whom this objur- 
gation was addressed, was none other than Joseph 
Toussaint, who, with kepi too far back on his head, had 
as little of a martial air as can well be imagined. He 
was paying very little attention to the Sergeant’s words, 
for he was watching a woman, whose dark dress he had 
seen gliding among the trees of the avenue. 

“ How like Angdle I ” he said to himself. 

He longed to throw down his musket, and rush in 
pursuit, but discipline before all ! He dared not take 
his eyes from this figure, however, lest he should lose 
all trace of her again. Fortunately, the Sergeant gave 
the order to stack arms and rest for fifteen minutes ; 


angele’s fortune. 


225 


and Toussaint darted off after the dark figure, passed 
her, turned, and looked in her face. 

“Yes! it is you!” he said, joyfully. “I was sure 
that I was not mistaken ! ” 

“ My dear friend ! ” answered Ang^le, extending her 
hand. Then, looking at him from head to foot, said, 
with an irrepressible smile : “ How odd you look in that 
costume ! I never should have known you.” 

She too was changed. Her cheeks were hollow and 
she had lost her color. She shivered in the keen air, 
and wrapped a thin shawl more closely round her 
shoulders. 

“ Why did you come back here ? ” asked Toussaint. 

“ I could not leave my mother alone. I should have 
been in constant anxiety about her. At least, we can 
be together, and so endure better whatever happens. 
Poor Paris ! ” she added, with a long sigh. 

“You may well say ‘Poor Paris!’ Terrible things 
have happened since ” 

Joseph checked himself. Angdle’s very lips turned 
pale, but she said calmly : 

“Since those dear days at V 61 zy you mean, I pre- 
sume. When I think of those terrible Prussians quar- 
tered in that cottage where I was so happy, my very 
heart bleeds.” 

“ Des Armoises has gone ? ” said Joseph, with bitter 
sarcasm, of which he was fully conscious presently and 
deeply repentant. “ He has found a place of safety 
with his — with his family.” 

14 


226 


angele’s foktune. 


AngMe turned away her head. 

“ My instinct did not deceive me. He is a thoroughly 
selfish fellow,” he continued. 

She wheeled round and caught his arm. 

“ Do not say an unkind word of Ren^. I will not 
endure it I ” she cried, passionately. 

“ You love him still ! ” exclaimed Joseph, in astonish- 
ment. 

“ Always and forever ! You must not judge Ren^ by 
the rest of the world. True poets are a race by them- 
selves ! ” 

“Yes,” interrupted Joseph, coldly, “a race whose 
brains have taken the place of their hearts ! ” 

“ They are precisely what they were intended to be,” 
continued AngMe, excitedly; “and the women whom 
they have loved must content themselves with knowing 
that, even for a brief period, they have occupied their 
lives. Besides,” she continued, as if she wished to find 
an excuse with which to justify Ren^ in her own eyes, 
“ if things have turned out as they have, it is because I 
wished it. It is not he whom you should blame. As for 
myself, I shall always be grateful to him. What was I 
before I knew him? An ignorant little rustic! His 
love has transformed me. At Liege, it was the recol- 
lection of this love which enabled me to endure these 
weary months of exile — ” 

“ Then you were sad at times, and lonely ? ” asked 
Joseph, desirous to change the conversation. 

“ Of course. Things were not altogether couleur de 
rose.” 


angele’s foktune. 


227 


And then, impelled by her natural expansiveness, 
she went on to describe her debut. The establishment 
where she was engaged was a regular Cafe Concert, 
where two performances took place daily, and she never 
was released until midnight, when she crawled to her 
bed, utterly worn out. The other women of the troupe 
were jealous of her beauty, and did their best to add to 
the difficulties of her life. Then her toilettes were too 
simple, and the Manager reproached her violently for 
this, and let her understand that he considered her 
absurdly virtuous. 

“Nevertheless,” she continued, “there were some 
amusing hours in this Bohemian life. In the morning, 
when we were all together, sewing on our dresses, we 
read to each other the billet doux we had received. 
Ah ! they were delicious ! ” 

It was easy to see that the frivolous side of her nature 
had been developed in the unscrupulous companionship 
by which she had been surrounded. She had kept up 
her light and smiling way of looking at things, and yet 
the light lines at the corners of her lips, and the shadows 
under her eyes told J oseph that many a night had been 
passed in tears. 

The drum beat and Toussaint started. 

“ I must go,” said the young man, as he pressed her 
hand. 

“ Come and see us in our new home,” she urged. 

He went the very next day. Madame S^n^chal had 
left the apartment in La Rue de Rennes. It had 


228 


angele’s foktune. 


become too expensive for her slender resources. The 
room she occupied now — Rue de Dragon on the Court 
- — consisted of a dark closet — which did duty as a 
kitchen — of a dining-room, where Madame S^ncchal’s 
bed, in an alcove, was shrouded by curtains, and by a 
sal6n, where AngMe slept. Here were assembled all 
that was left of the furniture in La Rue de Savonnaires. 
Above a plaster figure of the Venus of Milo was a 
great bunch of withered roses, hung, like a relic, against 
the wall. 

In a vase on the mantel shelf was a pack of cards, 
often consulted, for neither Ang^le nor her mother had 
lost faith in them. 

When J oseph entered, Angele was taking her choco- 
late, carefully served by Madame S^n^chal, in their 
onlj^ cup of old Japanese, and with their one solid silver 
spoon, both reserved for the sole use of her daughter. 

“You surprise me,” said Angele, “in one of my rare 
and brief moments of magnificence. I adore my break- 
fast. I fancy myself rolling in wealth. Have I not 
old china and silver ? What more do I need ? ” She 
laughed, and then said quite seriously : 

“ Dear Mamma, please lay aside those pink papers on 
the commode, they destroy the illusion! Well they 
might, since these rose-colored papers were the pawn- 
broker’s tickets ! ” 

Madame S^nechal’s careworn countenance showed 
Joseph very clearly that things were going hard with 
her. He understood this, however, more fully when he 


I 


angele’s fortune. 


229 


again became a daily visitor in this humble interior, 
and was quickly initiated into the daily battles fought 
by the poor mother to ensure her daughter the bread 
she put into her mouth. The two women lived by 
their needle, and since the siege had begun they found 
little work, and that very poorly paid. 

When the Government organized the equipment of 
the National Guard, they obtained some occupation. 
Sewing was given out, and they earned by very hard 
labor a few sous each day. 

Occasionally too, AngMe, through the Massador 
agency, got a chance to recite some patriotic verses 
before an audience of soldiers. Her recompense was 
small enough, so far as money went, but Angele enjoyed 
the salvos of applause. One evening the enthusiastic 
audience presented her with a rabbit decked with rib- 
bons, which she bore with a gay laugh of triumph, home 
to her mother. 

At this time, a rabbit was not a present to be dis- 
dained, and Madame Sdn^chal welcomed the gift with 
much thanksgiving, and contrived to make it last 
three days. But the two poor women found it hard to 
live, and their debts accumulated. When at last, one 
of their creditors became impatient, Madame Sdndchal 
rose one morning and looked over everything she 
owned, and carried off to the pawnbroker’s a half for- 
gotten treasure in the shape of a pair of plated candle- 
sticks. She paid her debt, and brought back to Angele 
some dainty for her breakfast. 


230 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


Her daughter, accustomed to her mother’s ways, 
asked no questions, but easily dreamed what had been 
done. She looked at the drawer from which the 
candlesticks had been taken, and said with a sigh ; 
“ And what are we to do when nothing is left ? ” 

“ Nothing ! Why, my dear child,” her mother would 
answer seriously, “ how can you talk in that way when 
we have your talent to fall back upon ? ” 

Joseph saw much of their poverty and of their 
cheerfulness, and he tried to assist them in many ways. 

His senator had not left Paris. Although he had no 
more speeches to write, he retained Toussaint in his 
service, both because he was fond of him, and because 
he needed some companionship in these dark and dreary 
days. Whenever the young man could get away from 
the duties he owed his patron and from the ramparts, 
he would hasten to Madame S^n^chal’s, bringing with 
him each time, one of those tin cans which played so large 
a part during the siege. Under pretext that the res 
.taurants were unendurable, he asked to be allowed to 
dine with these two women, and was thus enabled to 
compel Madame S^n^chal to accept some money from 
him. 

He said his room was too small to hold both his 
books and his wood, and he ordered the wood sent to 
the Rue du Dragon. He spent his evenings there, and 
after a frugal supper of horse flesh, and rice, they 
gathered round a bright fire in Angele’s room, and as 
he saw the faces of mother and daughter slightly flush 


angele’s fortune. 231 

in the delicious warmth, he would rub his head and 
exclaim : 

“ I do love winter ! I love to hear the wind howl 
round the windows. I love to hear that crackling 
sound of the wood blazing, and when I am here, I for- 
get the ramparts, the National Guard and the Prus- 
sians bivouacked around Paris. It seems to me that 
we are again at Bay, and that in one moment we shall 
hear the bell ring for nine o’clock.” 

Madame Sdnechal smiled; Ang^le sighed as she 
sewed the coarse heavy work she held on her knees. 
She was not the dupe of any of the pretexts invented 
by Toussaint, but she was neither humiliated nor con- 
fused by these alms. Her thoughts were elsewhere, 
and her life was retrospective. She lived in the Past, 
and the terrible incidents of the siege hardly awakened 
her attention. She knew that the time was approach- 
ing when she must confide a secret to her mother, 
which would crush her to the earth. 

In November, Joseph was so much occupied with his 
military duties that he was rarely seen at the S^n^chals’. 
This was the time selected by Angele, to reveal her 
miserable story to her kind and indulgent mother. 

The rain dashed against the windows of the room 
where the two women sat completing the day’s 
appointed task, and then it was that Angele, in a low 
quivering voice made her disclosure. It was a thunder 
stroke to Madame S^ndchal, who had always placed the 
most absolute confidence in her daughter, and was 
deeply wounded in her dignity and her pride. 


232 


angele's fortune. 


She seized Ang^le by the arm, and pushed her into 
the next room, and then burst into wild tears and sobs, 
mingled with maledictions against Ren4 des Armoises. 

AngMe sat in the darkness and cold of the dining- 
room, with her head leaning against the wall, and when 
she could bear it no longer, she opened the door into 
the corridor, but her mother heard her, and rushed like 
a whirlwind from the sal6n. 

“What are you going to do?” she exclaimed, 
snatching her daughter’s hand. “ Do you wish to find 
that wretch who has deserted you ? ” 

“No mamma,” answered AngMe drearily. “ But now 
that you throw me off, what is there save the Seine left 
to me ? ” 

She said this in such a heartbroken tone that her 
mother caught her in her arms, and the two women 
mingled their tears. Finally as the night wore on, both 
grew calmer, and the mother took it on herself to 
console the daughter. “Her poor little bird, her 
Angdle.” 

By degrees she began to look on the coming of 
Angle’s child, not only without aversion, but with 
impatience. 

“We were so alone in the world!” she said, “and 
now we shall have a man to protect us.” 

To hear Madame S^n^chal talk, one would have sup- 
posed the boy to be at least ten years old. She began to 
get together tiny stockings, and an embroidered apron 
or two, but she forget the essentials, flannels and linen. 


angele’s fortune. 


233 


Thus November and December wore away, Joseph 
in the meantime living the rough life of a soldier. On 
the 31st of December, he brought as a New Year’s gift, 
a half dozen huge potatoes that they cooked in the 
ashes. 

Then came the worst days of the siege, the time that 
they were all glad to get bread made of the husks of 
oats, days without a fire, and nights disturbed by the 
incessant bombardment. The streets, of course, were 
unlighted at night and wretched by day, but the women 
found some little comfort in looking forward to the 
coming of the baby. 

“Ah! mamma,” said Ang^le, “every thing we see 
in him that is like me, we must eradicate. He must be 
a great artist like his father.” 

“ He had better be an honest man ! ” Madame S^n^ 
chal answered sharply. 

Sometimes as the girl sat alone in her cold and com- 
fortless room, listening to the incessant rattling of 
musketry, the beating of drums, and the bugle’s clarion 
call*, the fear of the Future would bring a cloud to her 
brow. The debilitating life of the siege, the want of exer- 
cise and nourishing food, the terrors of the bombard- 
ment affected both health and spirits. She had a dry 
hard cough, and her strength seemed to have fled. 

“How do I dare to rejoice in the birth of my child? 
Will he not have the right to reproach me ? May I 
not die before I can bring him up ? ” 

Then there came a moment’s cessation of the firing. 


234 angele's fortune. 

the drums ceased to beat, the sun came out — a spar- 
row twittered on the window sill, and Angle’s heart 
grew lighter ; the Hope which was a part of her nature, 
once more regained its ascendancy. 

“God,” she said to herself, “will pardon my errors 
if I try to do my duty toward my child. He will give 
me strength and courage to bring him up as I ought. 
Better days are in store for us ! ” 


angele’s fortune. 


235 


CHAPTER XVI. 

FRANCO-PRUSSIAN. 

T four o’clock/’ cried the Lieutenant, “every 



JLX man is to be on the Quai, with his arms and 
his baggage ; not a button is to be left behind ! ” 

It was at Courbevoie, on the morning of the 19th of 
February, that the Lieutenant, lantern in hand, stood 
on the threshold of a room occupied by Toussaint and 
his comrades, in a deserted house, at Courbevoie, and 
issued this peremptory order. 

“ I wish a man could rest one minute in peace ! ” 
grumbled a young fellow with a blonde moustache. 
“I must say, that I prefer the days of the Empire, 
myself ! ” 

“It seems that we are to do some desperate deed 
anon ! ” said an artist, as he rolled up his blanket and 
tightened the strap, and he lightly hummed a fragment 
of an old song. 


Mon capital ne est raort, 

Et moi je vis encore; 
Demain, an point du jour, 
Ce sera mon tour. 


Joseph, very grave and a little nervous, buttoned his 
long, bottle-green coat and buckled his belt. He 
realized that something serious was near at hand. For 


236 


angele’s fortune. 


three days, there had been a vague murmur of a su- 
preme effort, and the newspapers went so far as to talk 
of a sortie, in a body. Toussaint had been, therefore, to 
the Sdn^chals to take leave of them, but said not a 
word of his visit being one of farewell, or of the rumors 
in circulation. 

“ To-day,” he said to himself, “ I shall be under fire 
for the first time. I wonder how I shall stand it I As 
well as the others, I suppose.” 

He followed his companions. The night was dark 
and wet. The battalion massed themselves along the 
parapet, with their backs to the Seine — which rolled 
past with a plaintive murmur — and facing the houses 
of Courbevoie, standing out black against the gray 
sky. Here and there, was a light in some one of the 
windows in the fa9ades. A regiment marched past; 
the trampling of horses, words of command, and oaths, 
were mingled with the rattling of the caissions of 
artillery. 

Joseph leaned against the parapet. 

“We have a hot morning’s work before us, com- 
rade ! ” said a full voice, whose theatrical intonation 
was not unknown to the young man. “ Can you give 
me a light for my cigar ? ” the voice continued. 

Toussaint glanced up at the broad shoulders of the 
speaker, then rubbed a match on his sleeve and held it 
out. The match lighted the faces of the two men for a 
moment, and Toussaint had time to distinguish two 
large, black eyes, a tawny skin, and a sarcastic mouth, 
ornamented by a fierce moustache. 


angele’s foktune. 


237 


“ Monsieur La Genevraie I ’* he exclaimed. 

“And who are you, pray?” was that gentleman’s 
reply. 

“Joseph Toussaint.” 

As the name seemed to recall nothing to La Gene- 
vraie, J oseph continued : 

“ I have seen you at Bay, at Madame Sdndchal’s.” 

“Ah! yes; to be sure. I remember. You have 
given up your law-studies then — to try soldiering, it 
seems I In what battalion are you ? ” 

“ In the Nineteenth. But how happens it. Monsieur 
La Genevraie, that you are here ? I thought that these 
marching regiments received no man over forty-five.” 

“ Never you mind how I came ! I am here, and that 
is enough. I have good legs and good eyes, as you will 
soon see ! ” 

The troops were now advancing in three parallel 
lines — the troops of the line, the Gardes Mobile, and 
the Gardes National. Above the tumult, came the 
regular sound of the Prussian shells, bursting on the 
left. This dismal sound of the bombardment of Paris, 
was received with a sort of savage satisfaction, by the 
soldiers from the provinces. 

“ Good I ” said some of them, so that they might be 
heard by the Gardes National. 

“ Good I let them give a few of the shells now to the 
Parisians.” 

“Yes,” answered a companion, “we have had quite 
enough of them I ” 


238 


angele's fortune. 


“ You hear that ! ” grumbled La Genevraie. “ And 
this is patriotism. Here are braggarts and brawlers, 
and there, timid peasants, whining for their stables ! 
The Germans are right, we are, as a people, done for 
and exhausted ! ” 

“ This war has been a hard lesson,” replied Toussaint. 
“If we come out of it wdth life, the Nation will be 
redeemed and regenerated ! ” 

“ You believe that, do you? ” replied La Genevraie, 
scornfully. “An effete nation is never regenerated, 
my boy, any more than over-ripe fruit becomes green 
again. When this siege is over, all that is left of the 
population of Paris — weary of black bread — will 
wallow in pleasure, like so many pigs in the mire — ” 
“You astonish me!” interrupted Toussaint. “If 
these are your ideas, why are you here with your gun 
on your shoulder ? — which, at your age, testifies to the 
possession of a generous and trusting nature. You 
astonish me ! I repeat.” 

“ My dear fellow,” replied La Genevraie, with 
haughty condescension, “ men like myself, are made to 
astonish simple fellows, such as you! I have shoul- 
dered my musket, not from conviction, nor yet from 
heroism. I have come here only because I am tired to 
death of that perpetual noise of bursting shells. I 
have a profound disgust for life and for myself, and my 
skin is not worth much. I am like an old vase, forgot- 
ten in the depths of some park, filled to overflowing by 
dead leaves, mould, and rain. If I am left here, with 


angele's fortune. 


239 


a ball through my brain, no one will miss me ; and if I 
come back, no one will care ! ” 

At the foot of Mont-Valerien, the troops halted. 
Daylight was piercing the fog, and by the gray light, 
the pale, worn faces of the National Guards were to be 
seen. Some of them were sitting on piles of stones, 
awaiting the order to move on ; others had lighted their 
pipes. A discharge of cannons from the Fort, and 
almost immediately, a rattling fire from the other side 
of Mont-Val4rien. 

“ That seems to be the signal,” said La Genevraie, 
calmly, as they resumed their march. 

Joseph was very thoughtful. La Genevraie smoked 
and did not once seem to think of the weight of his 
knapsack. 

It was about ten o’clock, when Joseph’s battalion 
descended the slope opposite Burenvae. In this valley, 
a large body of troops were assembled, waiting while the 
battalions slowly ascended the hill which led to the 
Park. At the right, toward La Gonchere, the battle 
had begun. The movements could be seen through 
the trees and clouds of smoke, and the ambulances 
could be seen carrying the wounded toward the village 
of Fouilleuse, whose brown roofs were to be distin- 
guished, as the fog and the smoke lifted. 

Just as Joseph’s battalion fell into line, a Prussian 
shell burst not fifty paces off. Toussaint was shaken 
from head to foot, as by an electric battery. 

“ Baptism by fire ! ” cried La Genevraie. 


240 


angele’s fortune. 


One of the commanding officers waved his sabre in 
the air and cried out to his men: 

“ Soldiers ! On to victory ! The 19th must return 
to Paris victorious ! ” 

“ Yes,” thought Joseph, sadly ; “ the 19th will return 
to Paris — nominally; but how will it be with each 
individual ? ” 

The cannon and the mitrailleures made the most 
infernal din, and balls came perpetually from the Prus- 
sians, sheltered behind the woods. A man in front of 
Joseph was struck. He fell dead, without a sound, 
and the others passed over him. 

Joseph tried to think of Ang^le ; of his home, where 
his sister Genevieve was probably at that moment 
praying for him ; but the common-place incidents of the 
march — his heavy knapsack, his gun, the sticky mud — 
all demanded his attention. The young man began to 
realize that it was not easy to philosophise at such a 
moment, and when he reached the brushwood, near the 
wall of the Park, he was utterly exhausted. 

La Genevraie was as fresh as a rose — his eyes as 
bright, and the smile on his lips as satirical as of yore. 

“Drink this, comrade,” and he handed to Joseph his 
flask of rum. “It will bring some strength to your 
legs.” 

They sat, side by side, on the turf. Shells moment- 
arily passed over the trees and fell among the troops, 
massed around de Teuilleuse. On the top of Mont- 
Val^rian were several fleld pieces and a group of 


angele’s fortune. 


241 


officers on horseback. On the right, between the Fort 
and the Heights was the Seine, and, further still, Paris 
itself, half wrapped in fog, through which pierced oc- 
casionally a dome or a steeple. The cold was less 
intense than it had been. An occasional gleam of 
sunshine was seen, and then a few flakes of snow. 
Joseph offered a slice of bread to La Genevraie, who 
was listening attentively to the musketry. 

“We shall not retreat,” he said, “nor do I think we 
shall advance in a hurry. We can have a little chat 
and another drink.” 

This drink made him more expansive. He began to 
talk of his travels in America, of his sojourn at Bay, of 
the S^ndchals, and finally of AngMe, who he knew had 
returned to Paris. 

“ Do you see her often ? ” he asked. 

Joseph replied in the affirmative. 

“Poor little girl!” said La Genevraie. “She has 
never had the smallest chance. I often reproach myself 
for inducing Des Armoises to abandon her. By the 
way, is the child born yet? ” 

“ What on earth do you mean? ” said Joseph, aghast. 

“ I mean what I say. Des Armoises told me. Look 
out I You came very near catching the trigger of your 
gun in that bush ” 

The order was now given to form again into marching 
order, which was silently and quickly done, and J oseph 
was separated from his companion. The whole bat- 
talion defiled, two by two, through a breach in the wall 
15 


242 


angele’s fortune. 


and entered the wood. The discharge of musketry was 
now continuous and momentarily approaching. Each 
man held his gun steady, prepared his cartridges, and 
balls whistled through the branches. 

There was a moment of hesitation in this body of 
men, to whom such scenes were so new, and Avhose 
discipline had been so brief. Some of them lost their 
coolness and hastily discharged their pieces, and others 
retreated a little to one side. Joseph marched on in 
the path which led to the Chateau de Buzenval. The 
poor fellow started at every ball which whistled over 
his head. The revelation made by La Genevraie had 
taken away all his courage. He could think of nothing 
but Angele, and had but one wish — to escape un- 
harmed from this place and rush to La Rue de Dragon. 
He, like many of his companions, now ran from tree to 
tree, and thus reached the edge of a little pond, partly 
covered by dry reeds. The walls of the chateau were 
reflected in this water. At the foot of a clump of 
pines, a company of troopers were sitting, waiting until 
they could open fire, their red breeches bright against 
the dark green turf. 

At the sight of this handful of terrified soldiery, 
demoralized and running from the shower of balls, 
which flattened themselves against the trunks of the 
trees, the troopers burst into a shout of laughter. 

“Well! well! green coats! You don’t seem to be 
quite easy in your mind ! ” 

Joseph colored deeply. “ It is true ! ” he said to 
himself; “I am a coward — a despicable coward!” 


angele’s fortune. 


243 


And as tlie troopers, at the order of their Lieutenant, 
resumed their march, he attached himself to them. 
The wood swarmed with Tirailleurs, who were doing 
their best to hold the ground against the Prussians. 
The National Guards, unaccustomed to fire, and ex- 
hausted by their long march, were perceptibly losing 
ground. They fell back in disorder among the trees, 
where they reloaded their arms. Joseph did his duty 
conscientiously, and stood steady at the side of an old 
soldier. 

The Prussian fire grew hotter, and the line wavered 
before it and turned to run. Suddenly, a tall fellow, in 
the green coat of the National Guard, emerged from the 
wood, carrying his head high. 

Joseph knew La Genevraie, who violently apostro- 
phised the fugitives. 

“ Cowards ! ” he cried. “ Come on ! ” 

But no one followed him. 

“ Cowards ! fools ! ” he exclaimed. 

This was all. At that moment, there was a formi- 
dable discharge from the Prussians, and when the smoke 
lifted. La Genevraie was not to be seen. 

Joseph quivered to the marrow of his bones. His 
fingers clutched his gun convulsively. To comfort 
himself, he spoke to his neighbor, who was kneeling by 
his side, half supported against a pile of stones, but 
when he touched his arm, Joseph discovered that he 
was dead. From that moment our friend knew nothing 
more of what took place that day. He stupidly listened 
to the balls, which whistled past his head, but he never 


244 


angIjle's fortune 


once loaded his piece. A bugle sounded the retreat, 
for it was growing dark. 

“ Come,” said an officer, as he passed, “ don't you 
hear ? ” 

Joseph rose and slowly made his way through the 
underbrush, and after a time, succeeded in finding his 
own battalion, and then they marched back on La 
Fouilleuse, the Prussian shells still escorting them. At 
eight o’clock, they reached La Fouilleuse, and Joseph, 
exhausted and dying of thirst, hurried to the garden of 
the farm, where he knew there was a spring; but the 
spot was so surrounded by the impatient soldiery, that 
he could not get near enough to fill his flask. He 
slowly walked toward the farm buildings, now filled 
with wounded and dying men. 

Ambulances were continually driving up to discharge 
their ghastly loads. The red light of a large lantern 
swinging over the gate, fell on a corner where five or 
six of the National Guard lay, wrapped in their long 
overcoats. 

“ Those over there are past all help ! ” muttered some 
one in the crowd. 

Joseph, as if fascinated, went toward them, and the 
first face he saw was that of La Genevraie. The ball 
had passed through his heart, and in the stiffness of 
Death his face had preserved its haughty expression. 
His eyes were wide open, and under his dyed mous- 
tache, his sarcastic lips seemed still shuddering with 
sovereign contempt — contempt for himself, for man- 
kind, and for Death itself. 


angele’s fortune. 


245 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A NEW LIFE. 

^^rilHANK heaven! ” cried Ang^le, as Joseph entered 
X her room, the day after the events which we 
have attempted to describe. “ I was afraid you were 
wounded.” 

“ I have escaped unharmed,” was his answer ; “ but 
I have seen many dreadful things.” 

He was very pale and haggard. He drew a chair to 
Angele’s side, and told her of the events of the prece- 
ding twenty-four hours. She listened breathlessly, with 
her eyes full of tears, as she murmured : 

“ How thankful I am, to see you safe ! If you only 
knew what agonies of suspense we suffered, when we 
heard that your battalion had been ordered to Burenval. 
I started at every report of the cannons, and it seemed 
to me, that each shell that burst, was especially in- 
tended for you. At dark, I could bear it no longer, 
and rushed to church, to pray, and to burn a candle in 
your behalf.” 

“ Then,” said Joseph, sadly, “ if I had never returned, 
you would have missed me a little ? ” 

“ Do you not belong to us ? Alas ! what would 
become of us, without you ? ” 

“I am glad to hear you say this, for it gives me 


246 


angele’s fortune. 


courage to speak to you frankly. Where is your 
mother ? ” 

“ She is out, and will not return for an hour.” 

Joseph did not speak for a moment, then he went to 
Angele and took her hands in his, and holding them 
firmly, he said, in a voice that trembled in spite of 
himself : 

“ Angele, I have long wished to say something to you. 
Over and over again, the words have been on my lips, 
but I never had the courage to utter them, and there 
was, besides, always some interruption. This terrible 
war is drawing to a close. There are vague rumors of 
an armistice. Peace may be nearer than we imagine, 
and I have made up my mind to tell you what my hopes 
and my wishes are.” 

He drew a long breath, and then hurried on. 

“ You are alone in the world, you and your mother, 
and you cannot live without some protection. I am 
alone, too, and I love you. Will you be my wife ? ” 

Angele’s lips parted. He arrested her words with a 
suppliant gesture, and continued. 

“ I know, only too well, how little I have to offer. 
I am poor and unattractive ; but I will work so cou- 
rageously for you, and will love you with so much 
tenderness, that you will not be unhappy.” 

Angele pressed his hand. 

“Thanks, dear friend,” she said; “but it is impos- 
sible I ” 

“ And why?” 


angele’s fortune. 


247 


“ Because,” she replied, “ the woman to whom you 
would give your name, should be worthy to bear it, 
and I am not ! Do you understand ? ” 

“ Perfectly ! ” interrupted Toussaint. “ I knew it, 
too, from La Genevraie.” 

Through the dull silence of the room, came the 
measured ticking of the tall clock in the corner. 

“I knew it,” continued Joseph, quietly, “and it is 
only another reason for you to consent to what I ask. 
To be a mother, Angele, is to bear a heavy responsi- 
bility, and one which my devotion will assist you to 
carry bravely. Let^me aid you ! I ask you this, in the 
name of the poor little soul, who will soon enter this 
hard world.” 

Angdle’s big blue eyes were full of tears ; but she 
shook her head. 

“ My best of friends,” she answered, “ I have given 
you one reason. There is still another, which is, that I 
love the father of my child. I do not judge him, I only 
say — I love him! ” And she imposed silence on Tous- 
saint by uplifted finger. “ My fault is without excuse, 
in the eyes of the world ; while, in my own, my devo- 
tion and fidelity to Ren^, is all my salvation! No 
matter what happens — living or dead, R,en4 will be to 
me always, just what he was that evening opposite 
N6tre Dame, when he first breathed a word of love in 
my ear. I love him still — blindly and faithfully, and 
shall always be faithful to him. 


248 


ANGELE S FORTUNE. 


“ You see,” she continued, in growing excitement, 
“ that with my heart full of his memory, there is no 
room for any other affection.” 

“ Yes, I see,” said Joseph, sadly, as he took up his 
kepi to depart. 

AngMe realized then, how cruelly she had mortified 
him, and coming toward him, she held out both her 
hands. 

“ You must not go in this way ! ” she exclaimed. 
“Forgive me, if I have been too frank, and if I have 
wounded you. Remain our friend, and love me like a 
brother. The hour draws near, when I shall need a 
friend.” 

He held her hands long in his, and as he studied her 
haggard features, and her eyes, bright with fever, he 
forgot everything, in his intense pity. 

“ Poor little girl ! ” he murmured. 

“ No,” she answered, with a faint smile, “ this child 
will be my consolation, not a burthen. Besides,” she 
added, with a dash of her natural levity, “he will 
change our luck. I feel it! But,” she added, “you 
must promise one thing, and that is, never to tell 
mamma what you have just said to me. Let it be a 
secret between us. You see,” she said, alluding to their 
first interview, “it was destined that there should 
always be secrets between us two.” 

Joseph went away with a heavy heart. It was as 
he had said, the days of the siege were numbered. 


angele’s fortune. 


249 


The conditions of the armistice were being drawn up, 
and on the 30th of January — Paris, having eaten her 
last ounce of black bread, learned that the capitulation 
was signed. 

The aspect of the city was dreary enough. A thick 
fog covered it as with a crape veil, and hid from sight 
the forts so valiantly defended, now in the possession of 
Prussia. 

The people were now gloomily discussing the con- 
ditions of the probable peace. Two thousand million 
ransom, the abandonment of Alsace, and of Lor- 
raine. Joseph Toussaint keenly felt this last humili- 
ation. It seemed to him, that his very heart strings 
were tugged at. 

“Alas! ” he said to AngMe, “when I go to visit the 
home of my childhood, I shall leave France behind me, 
and travel twenty leagues into Germany. I see now,’’ 
continued the poor fellow, with an involuntary return 
to his figurative language, “ I see how foolish it is to 
build one’s nest on the outer limbs of a tree, that stands 
on the edge of a forest.” 

It was he who brought the first crust of white bread 
in that comfortless home, in La Rue du Dragon, where 
the two women sat and sewed all day, trying hard to 
get a little ahead, and have a trifling sum laid aside, for 
the time when Angele’s busy fingers must perforce rest 
for a while ; but they were so poorly paid, that they 
rarely had more than enough for their daily needs, and 


250 


angele’s foktune. 


if they had, Madame S^n^chal would invariably spend 
it for some useless trifle, for the baby that was coming, 
or in some delicacy for Angele. 

One evening, Joseph went to the house. Madame 
S^n^chal met him on the staircase. 

“ She is very ill,” said the mother, anxiously ; but ' 
her anxiety was not so much for her daughter’s health, 
as for her purse, which was absolutely empty. 

“ I do not know,” she said, “ what is to become of us. 

I have made Angele believe that we have a little money 
in the house; but the truth is, that I have not three 
francs in the world ! ” 

He tlirust his portemonnaie into the old lady’s hands 
and fled. His agitation was so great, that he longed to 
be alone. 

Ang^le’s baby was born at daybreak. After a night 
of intolerable suffering, the mother’s eyes rested on 
her boy. 

“He is mine,” she murmured; “all mine! Let his 
name be Ren^. Send for Joseph I ” 

Her voice was choked by a violent cough, followed 
by a hemorrhage from the lungs. It seemed evident 
that her hours were almost numbered. 

When Joseph appeared, it was past five. Angele lay 
almost unconscious, as white as the linen about her. 

“ Joseph,” she said, faintly, “ is it you, my good 
friend ? Come close to me, and tell me that I am not 
going to die, now that life would be so sweet to me. 


angele’s fortune. 


251 


We might go back to Bay, where the water rippled 
past my window.” 

She seemed to be listening for a moment, and then 
with a long, shivering sigh, she continued in a whisper : 

“ You will see what a good mother I shall make ! 
We will bring him up in the country, where there are 
roses and honeysuckles. Ah! how delicious those 
honeysuckles were, at V^lzy.” 

She turned her head toward the windows, where the 
grey dawn was creeping in, and Rent’s verses came to 
her lips : 

“ Je m’endors, et la-bas le frissonant matin 
Baigne les pampr^s verts, d’une rongeur furtive.” 

And, with these words and a faint sigh, she became 
unconscious. W as she dead ? The mother refused to 
believe it. The physician was hastily summoned. He 
came, but shook his head. Madame S^n^chal entreated 
him piteously to save her daughter’s life. The good 
man sent her from the room, and bade her take care of 
the child, while he did his best for the apparently 
dying young mother. 

Madame S4n^chal vehemently declared that she 
hated the child — that his birth had deprived her of her 
daughter. Joseph, half blinded by tears, led her away 
to the next rooin, where on a table lay the dirty pack 
of cards which had so often been consulted, and which 
had never failed to prophesy such golden days for 
Ang^le in the future. 


252 


angele’s fortune. 


In breathless anxiety they awaited the summons from 
the physician, who came at last to tell them that he 
saw a faint ray of hope. 

It is needless to dwell on this season of anxiety and 
sorrow. The pale, young mother struggled back to 
life, and after a few weeks, was able to thank Joseph 
for his faithful devotion. Ang^le was changed — 
utterly changed — gentler and more submissive to her 
mother, as well as more appreciative of Joseph’s 
unselfishness. 

Later, as better days dawned on France, Joseph — 
thanks to the protection of his old patron again — 
obtained a good position as secretary, and then he 
ventured once more to ask AngMe to become his 
wife, promising to bestow on her son, his own name 
and a father’s care. AngMe could no longer refuse. 

“ I am unworthy,” she said, with tears in her eyes ; 
but I will try and make you a good wife.” 

The famous Morel fortune was never received from 
the Malayan Archipelago, but an aunt of Angele — 
an old maid, who had acq[uired a little property by 
making dresses for the ladies at Bay — died and left to 
Madame S^n^chal fifteen thousand francs. 

The old lady lived with her children, but found her 
greatest happiness in her grandson, and as little Ren^ 
grew ruddy and strong, Madame Sendchal again began, 
in his honor, to take her little trips into the land of 
fancy and unreality. 


angele’s fortune. 


253 


Leaning over the boy’s cradle like the old fairy 
godmother in nursery tales, she drew the most won- 
derful horoscopes, declaring that the cards said he 
would make a great figure in the world. Toussaint 
smiled half sadly at this, for he saw in these tiny 
features only a startling likeness to the mother, whose 
life had been so sad, and who had only lately, after 
many storms and threatened shipwrecks, drifted into a 
harbor of refuge. If she was not radiantly happy, she 
was at least calmly content, living with her mother, her 
husband and her child — fulfilling her simple round of 
daily duties. 

In September, 1874, Joseph went to Lorraine, on 
family business, and took with him little Ren4 ; on 
his way back, he could not resist the temptation of lin- 
gering a few hours at Bay. He left the cars, therefore, 
at that station, and, leading Ren^ by the hand, passed 
slowly through La Rue des Sauveurs, where Lawyer 
Boblique’s sign still shone in the sun, and so on down 
to the bridge, which commanded a view of the ogives of 
the church, the slumbrous waters of the canal, and the 
black fat^ades of the houses in La Rue des Savon- 
naires. 

Nothing was changed. The water swashed against 
the piers, with the same sound as of yore, and through 
the open window of the room he had occupied, fiowed 
the curtain, precisely as it did the first day he saw the 
place. As Joseph stood there, it seemed to him that 


254 


angele’s fortune. 


AngMe must appear on that balcony, among the flowers, 
with her graceful figure, chestnut hair and sunny blue 
eyes. He lifted the boy to show him the water, and 
as he did so, the sound of approaching footsteps caused 
him to look round ; he started, as his eyes fell on Ren^ 
des Armoises, who was lounging across the bridge. 

The poet recognized Joseph, and his face wore a 
mingled expression of annoyance and shame. His eyes 
fell on the child, who was playing with some bright 
leaves he had gathered. Little Ren^ was so exactly 
like his mother, that Des Armoises had not a moment’s 
doubt. His heart gave a great leap, and then seemed 
dead within him. With colorless, trembling lips, he 
tried to speak, but Joseph interrupted him. 

“ You see,” he said “that I am making a pilgrimage 
to Monsieur S^nechal’s old house.” 

There was a long embarrassed silence. 

The poet was watching the child, and all this time 
Joseph was examining with surprise, the very marked 
change which he detected in the person of his old 
friend. He had grown stout, his features had lost all 
their delicacy, and his eyes were full of melancholy 
discontent. 

“You find me changed, I see?” he said bitterly. 
“ What would you have ? We must all grow old.” 

Then with an interest which was evidently feigned, 
he questioned Toussaint as to his own prospects, and 
those of Paris. They touched on Politics a little, and 


angele’s foktune. 


255 


on the Theatre and Literature not at all, nor did the 
name of Angele once pass the lips of either of these 
men. 

“But you write still?” said Joseph. “How is it 
that I never see your name now-a-days ? Are you like 
one of those trees, which after an abundant harvest, 
suddenly cease to yield any fruit ? ” 

Des Armoises smiled sadly. 

“I am,” he said, “like a tree which is suddenly cut 
off from fresh air and sunshine. These black walls 
— this life kills me — and my branches flower no more. 
How do you suppose that I can write in a house over- 
run with children, and amid the gossip and miserable 
details of a provincial life.” 

“ But why don’t you return to Paris ? ” 

“Because my chains are well riveted. This war has 
ruined us. I have two children, a wife who is out of 
temper because she is out of the world, a father-in-law 
whom the fall of the Empire has reduced to idiocy, a 
mother who became embittered and soured, by disap- 
pointment and reverses. I live in my house like a toad 
in an old wall ! ” 

Again he examined little Ren^, whose wide-open 
childish eyes were riveted on him in astonishment. 

“Farewell,” exclaimed des Armoises. “I do not 
ask you to come and see us. The house is dreary, the 
children are spoiled, and my wife is ill. Ah! you 
know nothing about it. Farewell ! ” 


256 


angele’s FOETUNE. ' 


Joseph looked after him as he walked away, and 
remembered the brilliant Ren4 des Armoises whom he 
had first seen in that musty lawyer’s office — so young 
and gay, so hopeful and confident ! Could this be the 
same ? This man with slouching gait, round shoulders, 
and careless dress. Joseph felt a profound pity, and 
lifting the child, he went toward the station bearing him 
in his arms. 


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The Old Homestead, 1 75 


Korston’s Rest, $1 75 

Bertha’s Engagement, 1 75 

Bellehood and Bondage, 1 75 

The Old Countess, 1 75 

Lord Hope’s Choice, 1 75 

The Reigning Belle, 1 75 

Palaces and Prisons, 1 75 

Married in Haste, 1 75 

Wives and Widows, 1 75 

Ruby Gray’s Strategy 1 75 


Doubly False,.... 1 75 | The Heiress,.,.. 1 75 | The Gold Brick,... 1 75 
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MRS. C. A. WARFIELD’S WORKS. 


Complete in nine large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back, priat 
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The Cardinal’s Daughter, $1 75 

Feme Fleming, 1 75 

The Household of Bouverie,.... 1 75 

A Double Wedding, 1 75 


Miriam’s Memoirs, 

Monfort Hall, 

Sea and Shore 

Hester Howard’s Temptation,. 


Xady Ernestine,' or. The Absent Lord of Rocheforte, 


$1 7S 
1 75 
1 75 
1 75 
1 75 


BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED. 

tSvery housekeeper should possess at least one of the folloming Cook Books, as they 
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The Queen of the Kitchen. Containing 1007 Old Maryland 


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Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book, Cloth, 1 75 

Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book, Cloth, 1 75 

Petersons’ New Cook Book, Cloth, 1 75 

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Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be, Cloth, 1 75 

The National Cook Book. By a Practical Housewife, Cloth, 1 75 

The Young Wife’s Cook Book Cloth, 1 75 

Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking, Cloth, 1 75 

Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million, Cloth, 1 75 


The Family Save-All. By author of National Cook Book,” Cloth, .1 76 
Francatelli’s Modem Cook. With the most approved methods of 
French, English, German, and Italian Cookery. With Sixty-two 
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A New Way to Win a Fortune $1 75 

The Discarded Wife, i 75 

The Clandestine Marriage, 1 75 

The Hidden Sin 1 75 

The Dethroned Heiress, 1 75 

The Gipsy’s Warning, 1 75 

All For Love, 1 75 


Why Did He Marry Her? $1 75 

Who Shall be Victor? 1 75 

The Mysterious Quest, 1 75 

Was He Guilty? 1 74 

The Cancelled Will, 1 74 

The Planter’s Daughter, 1 75 

Michael Rudolph, 1 74 


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tomplete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.75 
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The Watchman, $1 75 

The Wanderer, 1 75 

The Lawyer’s Story, 1 75 


Diary of an Old Doctor, $1 75 

Sartaroe, 1 75 

The Three Cousins, 1 75 


The Old Patroon ; or the Great Van Broek Property, 1 75 

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T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 

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The Sealed Packet, $1 75 Dream Numbers, $1 75 

Garstang Grange, 1 75 Beppo, the Conscript, 1 75 

Leonora Casaloni,... 1 75 | Gemiuu, 1 75 | Marietta, 1 74 

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rbmp.’ete in six large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.7^ each ; 
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Father and Daughter, $l 75 I The Neighbors, $1 74 

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Basil; or, The Crossed Path..$l 50 | The Dead Secret. 12mo $1 50 

Above are each in one large duodecimo volume, bound in cloth. 


The Dead Secret, 8vo 75 

Basil; or, the Crossed Path, 75 

Hide and Seek, 75 

After Dark, 75 

The Stolen Mask, 25 | The Yellow Mask,... 25 ] Sister Rose,. 

The above books are each issued in paper cover, in octavo form. 


The Queen’s Revenge, 71 

Miss or Mrs? 50 

Mad Monkton, 50 

Sights a-Foot, 50 

2i 


FEANK FORRESTEE’S SPORTING BOOK. 

Frank Forrester’s Sporting Scenes and Characters. By Henry Wil- 
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Tho Border Rover, $1 75 Bride of the Wilderness, $1 75 

Clara Moreland, 1 75 Ellen Norbury, I 75 

The Orphan’s Trials, I 75 Kate Clarendon, 1 75 

V’iola; or Adventures in the Far South-West, 1 75 

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GBEEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING. 

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Gambling Exposed, $1 75 i Reformed Gambler, $1 75 

The Gambler’s Life, 1 75 j Secret Band of Brothers, 1 75 

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DOW’S PATENT SERMONS. 

Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.55 
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Dow’s Patent Sermons, 1st Dow’s Patent Sermons, 3d 


Series, cloth, $1 50 

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 2d 
Series, cloth 1 50 


Series, cloth, ...$1 5i 

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 4th 
Series, cloth, 1 51 


Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.00 each. 

MISS BRADDON’S WORKS. 

Aurora Floyd, 75 I The Lawyers Secret, 25 

Aurora Floyd, cloth 1 00 | For Better, For Worse, 75 


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6 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


CHARLES LEVER’S BEST WORKS. 

Arthur O'Leary, 75 

Con Cregan, 75 

Davenport Dunn, 75 

Horace Templeton, 75 

Kate O’Donoghue, 75 


Charles O’Malley, 75 

Harry Lorrequer, 75 

Jack Hinton, 75 

Tom Burke of Ours, 75 

Knight of Gwynne, 75 


Above are in paper cover, or a fine edition is in cloth at $2.00 each. 

A Rent in a Cloud, 50 | St. Patrick’s Eve, 50 

Ten Thousand a Year, in one volume, paper cover, $1.50 ; or in cloth, 2 00 
The Diary of a Medical Student, by author “ Ten Thousand a Year,” 75 

MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BEST BOOKS. ' 


The Master of Greylands, $1 50 

Wiihin the Maze, 1 50 

Dene Hollow, 1 50 

Bessy Rane, 1 50 

George Canterbury’s Will, 1 50 

Verner’s Pride, 1 50 

The Channings, 1 50 


The Shadow of Ashlydyat, $1 5i 

Squire Trevlyn’s Heir, 1 50 

Oswald Cray, 1 50 

Mildred Arkell, 1 50 

The Red Court Farm, 1 50 

Elster’s Folly, 1 50 

Saint Martin’s Eve, 1 50 


Roland Yorke. A Sequel to “ The Channings,” 1 50 

liord Oakburn’s Daughters ; or. The Earl’s Heirs, 1 50 

The Castle’s Heir ; or. Lady Adelaide’s Oath, «k 1 51 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 
Edina; or. Missing Since Midnight, cloth, $1, paper cover, 75 


The Mystery, 75 

Parkwater. Told in Twilight, 75 

The Lost Bank Note, 50 

The Lost Will, 50 

Orville College, 50 

Five Thousand a Year, 25 

The Diamond Bracelet, 25 

Clara Lake’s Dream, 25 

The Nobleman's Wife, 25 

Frances Hildyard, 25 

Cyrilla Maude’s First Love,... 25 

My Cousin Caroline’s Wedding 25 


A Life’s Secret, 50 

The Haunted Tower 50 

The Runaway Match, 25 

Marty n Ware’s Temptation, 25 

The Dean of Denham, 25 

Foggy Night at Ofiford, 25 

William Allair, 25 

A Light and a Dark Christmas, 25 

The Smuggler’s Ghost 25 

Rupert Hall, 25 

My Husband’s First Love, 25 

Marrying Beneath Your Station 25 


EUGENE SUE’S GREAT WORKS. 

First Love,. 


The Wandering Jew, $1 50 

The Mysteries of Paris, 1 50 

Martin, the Foundling, 1 50 

Above are in cloth at $2.00 each. 

Life and Adventures of Raoul de Surville. A Tale of the Empire,. 


Woman’s Love, 

Female Bluebeard,., 
Man-of-War’s-Man, 


50 

60 

50 

60 

25 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Betail Prlee^ 
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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 7 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BEST BOOKS, IN CLOTH. 

The following are cloth editions of Mrs. Henry Wood’s best hooks, and they 
are each issued in large octavo volumes, hound in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

Within the Maze. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,” $1 75 

The Master of Greylands. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 1 75 

Dene Hollow. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Within the Maze,” 1 75 
Bessy Bane. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ The Channings,”.... 1 75 
George Canterbury’s Will. By Mrs. Wood, author “Oswald Cray,” 1 75 
The Channings. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Dene Hollow,”... 1 75 

Roland Yorke. A Sequel to “ The Channings.” By Mrs. Wood, 1 75 

Shadow of Ashlydyatt. By Mrs. Wood, author of “Bessy Rane,”.... 1 75 
Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or The Earl's Heirs. By Mrs. Wood,... 1 75 
Verner’s Pride. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,” 1 75 
The Castle’s Heir; or Lady Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 1 75 
Oswald Cray. By Mrs. Henry W ood, author of “ Roland Yorke,”.... 1 75 

Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or Trevlyn Hold. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 1 76 

The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Wood, author of “Verner’s Pride,” 1 75 
Elster’s Folly. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Castle’s Heir,”... 1 75 
St. Martin’s Eve. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Dene Hollow,”! 75 
Mildred Arkell. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,” 1 75 

WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 

The following hooks are each issued in one large duodecimo volumet 
bound in cloth, at $1.75 each, or each one is inpaper cover, at $1.50 each. 


The Initials. A Love Story. By Baroness Tautphoeus, $1 75 

Married Beneath Him. By author of “ Lost Sir Massingberd,” 1 75 

Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “ Zaidee,” 1 75 

Family Pride. By author of “ Pique,” “ Family Secrets,” etc 1 75 

Self-Sacrifice. By auth op of “ Margaret Maitland,” etc 1 75 

The Woman in Black. A Companion to the “W'oman in White,” ... 1 75 

The Autobiography of Edward Wortley Montagu, 1 75 

The Forsaken Daughter. A Companion to “Linda,” 1 75 

Lore and Liberty. A Revolutionary Story. By Alexander Dumas, 1 75 

The Morrisons. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer, 1 75 

The Rich Husband. By author of “ George Geith,” 1 75 

Woodburn Grange. A Novel. By William Howitt, 1 75 

The Lost Beauty. By a Noted Lady of the Spanish Court, 1 75 

My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. A Charming Love Story, 1 75 

The Quaker Soldier. A Revolutionary Romance. By Judge Jones,.... 1 75 
Memoirs of Vidocq, the French Detective. His Life and Adventures, 1 75 
The Belle of Washington. With her Portrait. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 75 
High Life in Washington. A Life Picture. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 75 


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8 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 

The following books are each issued in one large duodecimo volume^ 
bound in cloth, at $1.75 each, or each one is in paper cover at $1.50 each. 

The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated, ...$1 75 
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, price $1.00 ; or cloth,.. 1 75 

Camille; or, the Fate of a Coquette. By Alexander Dumas, 1 75 

Love and Money. By J. B. Jones, author of the “Rival Belles,”... 1 75 
The Brother’s Secret ; or, the Count De Mara. By William Godwin, 1 75 
The Lost Love. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “ Margaret Maitland,” 1 75 
The Roman Traitor. By Henry William Herbert. A Roman Story, 1 75 

The Bohemians of London. By Edward M. Whitty, 1 75 

Wild Sports and Adventures in Africa. By Major W. C. Harris, 1 75 
Courtship and Matrimony. By Robert Morris. With a Portrait,... 1 75 

The Jealous Husband. By Annette Marie Maillard, 1 75 

The Life, Writings, and Lectures of the late “ Fanny Fern,”.,....... 1 75 

The Life and Lectures of Lola Montez, with her portrait, 1 75 

Wild Southern Scenes. By author of “Wild Western Scenes,” 1 75 

Currer Lyle ; or, the Autobiography of an Actress. By Louise Reeder. 1 75 

The Cabin and Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph. Illustrated, 1 75 

The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey, 1 75 

Lizzie Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T, S. Arthur, 1 75 

Lady Maud ; or, the Wonder of Kingswood Chase. By Pierce Egan, 1 75 

Wilfred Montressor ; or. High Life in New York. Illustrated, 1 75 

The Old Stone Mansion. By C. J. Peterson, author “Kate Aylesford,” 1 75 
Kate Aylesford. By Chas. J. Peterson, author “ Old Stone Mansion,”. 1 75 

Lorrimer Littlegood, by author “ Harry Coverdale’s Courtship,” 1 75 

The Earl’s Secret. A Love Story. By Miss Pardoe, 1 75 

The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe, author of “The Earl's Secret,” 1 75 
Coal, Coal Oil, and all other Minerals in the Earth. By Eli Bowen, 1 75 

Secession, Coercion, and Civil War. By J. B. Jones, 1 75 

Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins, author of “ The Crossed Path,” 1 60 

The Crossed Path ; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins, 1 60 

Indiana. A Love Story. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” 1 60 
Jealousy ; or, Teverino. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” etc. 1 56 
Six Nights with the Washingtonians, Illustrated. By T. S. Arthur, 3 50 
Comstock’s Elocution and Model Speaker. Intended for the use of 
Schools, Colleges, and for private Study, for the Promotion of 
Health, Cure of Stammering, and Defective Articulation. By 
Andrew Comstock and Philip Lawrence. With 236 Illustrations.. 2 00 
The Lawrence Speaker. A Selection of Literary Gems in Poetry and 
Prose, designed for the use of Colleges, Schools, Seminaries, Literary 
Societies. By Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. 600 pages.. 2 00 


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GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS. 

NEW AND BEAUTIFUL EDITIONS, JUST READY. 

Each Work is complete and unabridged, in one large volume. 

All or any will be sent free of postage, everywhere, to all, on receipt of remittances. 

Mysteries of tJie Court of L.ondoii; being THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF 
6E0R(JE THE THIRD, wilh the Life and TYmes PRINCE OF WALES, o/'/cruiard GEOR(jE 

THE FOURTH. Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price 81.75 ; or in paper cover, priceSl.Oo. 

Rose Foster ; or, the “ Second Series of the Mysteries of the Court of London.” Complete in one 
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Caroline of Bruiiswicic; or, the “Third Series of the Mysteries of the Court of London.” 
Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price 81.75; or in paper cover, i rice 81.00. 

Venetia Trelawney ; being the ‘ Fourth Series <'r final conclusion of the Mysteries of the Court 
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l.ord Saxoiidale; or. The Court of Queen Victoria. Complete in one large volume, bound iu 
cloth, price 81.75 ; or in paper cover, price 81.00. 

l'<»iitit Christo val. The “Sequel to Lord Saxondale.” Complete in one large volume, bound 
in cloth, price 81-75; or in paper covei', price 81.00. 

Rosa JLambcrt; or. The Memoirs of an Unfortunate Woman. Complete in one large volume, 
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Joseph Wilinot; hr. The Memoirs of a Man Servant. Complete in one large volume, bound in 
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Tlie Ranker’s Ratig'hter. A Sequel to “Joseph Wilmot.” Complete in one large volume, 
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Tlie Rye»llouse Plot; or, Ruth, the Conspirator’s Daughter. Complete in one large volume, 
bound in cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price 8100. 

The Neeroniaiicer. Being the Mysteries of the Court of Henry the Eighth. Complete i& 
me large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price 81 OO. 

Mary Price; or. The Adventures of a Servant Maid. One voL, cloth, price $1.75; or in paper. 81 OQ 
Fustace t^uentin. A “Sequel to Mary Price.” One vol., cloth, price $1.75; or in paper, $1.0(| 
The Mysteries of the Court of Xaples. Price $l.U0iu paper cover; or 81-75 in doth 
lieuiieth. A Romance of the Highlands. One vol., cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, $1.( 0. 
Wallace: the Hero of Scotland. Illustrated v.ith plates. Paper, 8l.(0; cloth, 81.75 
The Gips.y Chief. Beautifully Illustrated. Price 81.00 in paper cover, or 81-75 in cloth. 
Robert Bruce; the Hero liiii;;; of Scotland. Illustrated. Paper, 81-00; cloth, $1.75 
The Opera Bancer ; or. The Mysteries of London Life. Price 75 cents. 

Isabella Vincent; or. The Two Orphans. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 
Vivian Bertram ; or, A Wife’s Honor. A Sequel to “Isabella Vincent.” Price 75 cents. 
The Countess of Fascelles. The Continuation to “Vivian Lertram.” Price 75 cents. 
I>nke of Marchmont. Being the Conclusion of “ The Countess of Lascelles.” Price 75 ccnta 
The Child of Waterloo; or. The Horrors of the Tattle Field. Price 75 cents. 

Pickwick Abroad. A Companion to the “Pickwick Papers,” by “ Boz.” Price 75 cents. 
The Countess and the Page. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Mary Stuart, t^neeu of Scots. Comjdete in one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 
The Soldier’s Wife. Illustrated. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

May Middleton ; or. The History of a Fortune. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 ceot» 
The Lioves of the Harem. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Flleii Percy; or. The Memoirs of an Actress. One large octavo volume. Price 76 cents. 

The Kliscarded Q,ucen. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Agnes Evelyn; or. Beauty and Pleasure. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Massacre of 01enc<»e. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Parricide; or. Youth’s Career in Crime. Beautifully Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 
C'iprina; or. The Secrets of a Picture Gallery. One volume. Price 50 cents. 
The Ruined Gamester. With Illustrations. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 
Fife in Paris. Handsomely illustrated. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents, 
t'lifford and the Actress. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

Edgar Montrose. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

f^^The above works will be found for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
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ALEXANDER DUMAS’ GREAT WDRKS. 

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The Cozjiit of Monte-Cristo. With elegant illustrations, and portraits of Edmond Pantei^ 
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Edmontl Dantes. A Sequel to the “Count of Monte-Cristo.” In one large octavo volume. 
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The Countess of MoErte-Cristo. With a portrait of the “Countess of Monte-Cristo ” o» 
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The Three Cruardsmen; or. The Three Mousqnetaires. In one large octavo 
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Twenty Years After. A Sequel to the “Three Guardsmen.” In one large octavo volume. 
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Drag'elonne; the Son of Athos. Being the continuation of “Twenty Ye.ars After.” In 
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The Iron Mash. Being the continuation of the “Three Guardsmen,” “Twenty Years After,” 
and “ Bragelonne.” In one largo octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Eouise Ea Valliere; or, the Second Series of the “Iron Mask,” and end of “The Three' 
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The Memoirs of a Physician ; or. The Secret History of the Courtof Louis the Fifteenth. 
Beautifully Illustrated. In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Q,ueen’s Yechlace; or. The “Second Series of the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one 
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Six Years Eater; or. Taking of the Bastile. Being the “Third Series of the Memoirs of a 
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Countess of Charny ; or. The Fall of the French Monarchy. Being the “Fourth Series of 
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Andree de Tave.riiiey. Being the “Fif^h Series of the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one 
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The Chevalier; or, the “Sixth Series and final conclusion of the Memoirs of a Physician 
Series.” In one largo octavo volume. Price $1.00 in paper cover ; or $1.75 in cloth. 

Joseph Balsamo. Dumas’ greatest work, from which the play of “Joseph Balsamo” waa 
dramatized, by his son, Alexander Dumas, Jr. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or $1.50 in cloth. 

The Conscript; or. The Days of the First A’apoleon. An Historical Novel. In 
one large duodecimo volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Camille; or. The Fate of a Coquette. (“ La Dame aux Camelias.”) This is the only 
true and complete translation of “ Camille,” and it is from this translation that the Play of “ Camille,” 
and the Opera of “La Traviata” was adapted to the Stage. Paper cover, price $1.50; or in cloth, $1.75, 

Eove and Elberty ; or, A Man of the 1‘eople. (Rene Besson.) A Thrilling Story 
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The Adventures of a Marqnis. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Forty-Five Guardsmen. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, tor $1.75. 

Diana of Meridor. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Iron Hand. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Isabel of Davaria, Q,iieen of France. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cento. 

Annette; or. The Eady of the Pearls. A Companion to “Camille.” Price 75 cento 

The Fallen Angel. A Story of Love and Life in Paris. One large volume. Price 75 cento. 

The Mohicans of Paris. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Horrors of Paris. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Man with Five Wives. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Sketches in France. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Felina de f’hambnre; or. The Female Fiend. Price 75 cents. 

The Twin Eientenants; or, The Soldier’s Bri<le. Price 75 cents. 

Madame de Chamblay. In one large octavo volume. Price 60 cents. 

The Black Tulip. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Corsican Brothers. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

George; or. The Planter of the Isle of France. Price 60 cento. 

The Count of Moret. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Marriage Verdict. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

Buried Alive. In one large octavo volume. Price 25 cents. 

Above hooks are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies of an^ 
or more, will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelpliia, Po. 


FETEESOirS’ DOLLAE SEEIES 

OF GOOD AND NEW NOVELS, ARE THE BEST, LARGEST, AND 

CHEAPEST BOOKS IN THE WORLD. 

Price One Dollar Each, in Cloth, Elack and Gold, 

A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT 'WOMEN. By Miss Mulock, Every Lady wants it. 
TWO WAYS TO MATKIMONY; or, Is It Love, or, False Pride ? 

THE STORY OP “ELIZABETH.” By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray. 
FLIRTATIONS IN FASHIONABLE LIFE. By Catharine Sinclair. 

THE MATCHMAKER. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. Full of freshness and truth. 
ROSE DOUGLAS, The Bonnie Scotch Lass. A companion to “Family Pride.” 

THE EARL’S SECRET. A Charming and Sentimental I.K)ve Story. By Miss Pardoe. 
FAMILY SECRETS. A companion to “ Family Pride,” and a very fascinating M’ork. 

A LONELY LIFE. A Thrilling Novel in Real Life. 

THE MACDERMOTS OP BALLYCLORAN. An Exciting Novel by Anthony Trollope. 
THE FAMILY SAVE-ALL. With Economical Receipts for Breakfast, Dinner and Tea. 
SELF-SACRIFICE. A Charming and Exciting work. By author of “Margaret Maitland.” 
THE PRIDE OP LIFE. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott. 

THE RIVAL BELLES; or. Life in Washington. Byauthor “Wild Western Scenes.” 
THE CLYPPARDS OP CLYPFE. By James Payn, author of “ Lost Sir Massingberd.” 
THE ORPHAN’S TRIALS ; or. Alone in a Great City. By Emei-son Bennett. 

THE HEIRESS OP SWEETWATER. A Love Story, abounding with exciting scenes. 
THE REFUGEE. A delightful book, full of food for laughter, and sterling information. 
LOST SIR MASSINGBERD. A Love Story. By author of “The Clyffards of Clyfife.” 
CORA BELMONT; or, THE SINCERE LOVER. A True Story of the Heart. 

THE LOVER’S TRIALS ; or. The Days Before the Revolution. By Mrs. Denison. 
MY SON’S WIPE. A strong, bright, interesting, and charming Novel. By author of “ Caste.” 
AUNT PATTY’S SCRAP BAG. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “ Linda,” “ Rena.” 
SARATOGA ! AND THE FAMOUS SPRINGS. An Indian Tale of Frontier Life. 
COUNTRY QUARTERS. A Charming Love Story. By the Countess of Blessington. 
SELF-LOVE. A Book for Young Ladies, with their prospects in Single and Married Life contrasted. 
LOVE AND DUTY. A Charming Love Story. By Mrs. Hubback. 

THE DEVOTED BRIDE; or, FAITH AND FIDELITY. A Love Story. 

THE HEIRESS IN THE FAMILY. By author of “ Marrying for Money.” 

COLLEY CIBBER’S LIFE OP EDWIN FORREST, with Reminiscences. 

THE MAN OP THE WORLD. This is full of style, elegance of diction, and force of thought. 
OUT OP THE DEPTHS. A Woman’s Story and a Woman’s Book, the Story of a Woman’s Life. 
THE QUEEN’S FAVORITE ; or. The Price of a Crown. A Romance of Don Juan. 
THE CAVALIER. A Novel. By G. P. R. James, author of “ Lord Montagu’s Page.” 

THE RECTOR’S WIPE ; or, THE VALLEY OP A HUNDRED FIRES. 
THE COQUETTE ; or, LIFE AND LETTERS OP ELIZA WHARTON. 
W^OMAN’S WRONG. A Book for Women. By Mrs. Eiloart. A Novel of great power. 
HAREM LIFE IN EGYPT AND CONSTANTINOPLE. By Emmeline Lott. 
THE OLD PATROON ; or, THE GREAT VAN BROEK PROPERTY. 
THE BEAUTIFUL WIDOW. TREASON AT HOME. PANOLA! 

iOS* The above Books are all issued in ''Petersons' Dollar Series'' and they will he found for sale 
by all Booksellers, News Agents, and on all Railroad trains, at One Dollar each, or copies of any one, 
or more, will be sent to anyplace, at once, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted in a letter, to 

T. B. PETEBSOJST & BBOTHEBS, Philadelphia. 


Mrs. Soutkworth’s Works. 

EACH IS IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME, MOROCCO CLOTH, GILT BACK, PRICE $1.75 EACH. 
All or any will be sent free of postage, everywhere, to all, on receipt of remittances. 


ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “Self-Made; or, Out of Depths.”/ 
SELF-RAISED; or, From the Depths. The Sequel to “Ishmael.” 

THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, the Fall of the House of Flint. 

THE “MOTHER-IN-LAW;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 

VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. The Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.” 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 

THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 

FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN-HATER. 

HOW HE WON HER. The Sequel to “Fair Play.” 

THE CHANGED BRIDES ; or. Winning Her Way. 

THE BRIDE’S FATE. The Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. The Sequel to “ Cruel as the Grave.” 

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or. The Crime and the Curse. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers. 

A NOBLE LORD. The Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 

THE MAIDEN WIDOW. The Sequel to “The Family Doom.” 

THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or. The Bride of an Evening. 

THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEAUTIES ; or, SHANNONDALE. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or. The Children of the Isle. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 

THE TWO SISTERS ; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 

THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 

INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. THE CURSE OF CLIFTOh| 
THE WIDOW’S SON; or, LEFT ALONE. 

THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 

ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA. 

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 

VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY 
THE SPECTRE LOVER. 

THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
THE FATAL SECRET. 

LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
THE LOST HEIRESS. 


BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 


THE DESERTED WIFE. RETRIBUTION 


Mrs. Southworth’s works will be found for sale by all Booksellers. 

Copies of any one, or more of Mrs. Southworth’s works, will be sent to any 
place, at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Emile Zola’s New Books. 


The Greatest Novels Ever Printed. 


L’ASSOMMOIK. By Emile Zola, author of “ The Conquest of 
Plassans,” “The Markets of Paris,” “ The Rougon-Macquart 
Family,” “ H41^ne,” “The Abbe’s Temptation,” etc., etc. 
“ L’Assommoir ” is the most Popular Novel ever published. 
It has already attained a sale in Paris of over One Hundred 
Thousand Copies. Complete in one large square duodecimo 
volume, price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in 
Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE CONQUEST OP PLASSANS; or, LA CONQUETE 
DE PLASSANS. A Tale of Provincial Life. By Emile 
Zola. One large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents in 
paper cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE MARKETS OF PARIS; or, LE VENTRE DE 
PARIS. By Emile Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir.” One 
large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE ROUGON-MACQUART FAMILY; or, LA FOR- 
TUNE DES ROUGON. By Emile Zola, author of 
“ L’Assommoir.” One large volume, price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

HELENE; A LOVE EPISODE; or, UNE PAGE 
D’AMOUR. By Emile Zola, author of “L’Assommoir.’' 
One large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION; or, LA PAUTE DE 
L’ABBE MOURET. By Emile Zola, author of “ L’Assom- 
moir.” One large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents 
in paper cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

l£^A6ot’6 Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies of any 

one, or all of them, will be sent to any one, to any place, at once, per return of mail, post- 
paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa- 


“ It will save many dollars.’’ — Lynn (J/a**.) ReporUr, 


CHEAPEST AND BEST ! 

PETERSON’S MAGAZINE ! 


JS^A StrppLEMENT ht given in every number for ISSO, containing a full-size pattern for a 
lady's, nr child's dress. Every subscriber will receive, during the year, twelve of these patterns, worth 
more, alone, than the subscription price.'^^S< 


“Petehson’s Magaeine” contains, erery year, 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12 colored Berlin 
patterns, 12 mammoth colored fashion plates, 24 pages of music, and about 900 wood cut* Its princi- 
pal embellishments are 

Its immense circulation enables its proprietor to spend more on embellishments, stories, &c., 
than any other. It gives more for the money, and combines more merits, than any in the world. In 
1880, a New Feature will be introduced in the shape of a series of 

SPLENDIDLY ILLUSTRATED ARTICLES. 

ITS TALES AND NOVELETS 

Are the best published anywhere. All the most popular writers are employed to write origincdly for 
“ Peterson." In 1880, FIVE ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT NOVELETS will be given, by AnntS. St^hen% 
Frank Lee Benedict, Frances Hodgson Bnmett, &c., &c., and stories by Jane G. Austin, by thotiuthor 
of ‘‘ Josiah Allen’s Wife,” by Rebecca Harding Davis, and all the best female writers. 

MidOTH ceLOBeo FAsnoia miis 

Ahead of all others. These plates are engraved on steel, twice the usual size, and are unequalled 
for beauty. They will be superbly colored. Also, Household and other receipts ; articles on Wax- 
Work Flowers,” “ Management of Infants ;” in short everything interesting to ladies. 


TERMS (Always in Advance) $2.00 A YEAR. 

>8^UNPARALLELED OFFERS TO CLUBS.'S^ 

With a copy of the premium picture (24 x 20) a costly steel engraving, 
“Washington at Valley Forge,” to the person getting up the club. 

With an extra copy of the Magazine for 1880, as a premium, to the 
person getting up the club. 

With both an extra copy of the Magazine for 1880, and the premium 
picture, to the person getting up the club. 

FQE LAEQEE GLXJBB BFIisL INDUGEMENTS t 


2 Copies for $3.50 

3 “ “ 4.50 

4 Copies for SO. 50 

6 “ “ 9.00 


5 Copies for S8.00 
7 •• “ 10.50 


Address, post-paid, 

CHARLES J. PETERSON, 

306 Chestnat Street, Pbiladolpbia, Pa. 
Bpocimens sent gratis, if written for, to get np clubs with. 


Andre TheurieVs Greatest Work. 


ANGELE’S FORTUNE. 

A STORY OF REAL LIFE. 

BY ANDRE THEURIET. 

TEANSLATED PEOM THE FEENOH BY MAEY NEAL SHEEWOOD. 


^^Angi^le^s Fortune’^ is looked upon by all French critics as the 
strongest and most dramatic of Theuriefs novels. In it the love-mak- 
ing is charming y and done with great delicacy y for Theuriet is 

an artist. He fascinates profoundly y and does not confine himself y as 
is his custom, to pictures of provincial life, but gives us a glimpse of 
Paris, its theatres and its streets. We watch the heroine from begin- 
ning to end with unabated, interest. Her pretty follies amuse and 
interest at first, while at the end they give us the heartache ; while the 
mother, at once weak and energetic, is a character almost new in fiction. 
*^La Genevraie,^^ the gay adventurer — heartless and yet not altogether 
selfish — is a French Micawber, while the hero, the poet, and lover of 
luxury, is so well done that we feel that he was drawn from life. The 
story is most admirably told, and as to the translation, it is only neces- 
sary to say that it is one oi 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents, 


Mrs.^ ShemjoooT s, to ensure its success. 


Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 


“Angile’s Fortune” u printed on tinted paper, and is issued in square \2mo. 
form, in uniform shape with Assommoir” **H^'ine; a Love Episode” or, *^Une Page 
d^ Amour,” ^^The Ahhfs Temptation,” ‘*The Markets of Paris,” ‘^The Rougon Macquart 
Family;” or, ^^La Fortune Des Rougon,” ^'The Conquest of Plassans,” and other works 
of Emile Zola’s published by us, and is for sale by all Booksellers, or copies will be sent 
to any one, to any pktce, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 



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